The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER TEN





IN THE AFTERNOON, Princess Brigitta visited her half-brothers in the nursery. The tension in the palace hadn’t reached here. Outside the gilded door, people spoke in hushed voices and hurried about their business with downcast eyes; inside, were the smells of cinnamon and warm milk and a sense of safety.

She knelt at a low table, parchment spread before her. “There.” Six-year-old Rutgar pointed with a grubby finger. “Draw a horse on top of the hill, Britta. Please!”

Britta dipped the goose feather in ink and obediently drew a horse. Beside her, Lukas squirmed excitedly. “And an axe, Britta!” he cried. “Give the woodcutter an axe, so he can fight the wolf!”

Britta drew an axe in the woodcutter’s hand, with a sharp, curving blade. It made her think of Harkeld and the bounty on his head.

Run, Harkeld. Don’t let them catch you.

“Where do you want the wolf?” she asked.

Rutgar leaned over the parchment, examining the scene she’d drawn. “There,” he said, his fingertip leaving a smudge on the parchment. “Under the tree.”

“No, no!” Lukas cried. “Not there! That’s where the witch is going.”

Witch. The word seemed to resonate in the room. Britta glanced at her armsman, standing beside the door. Did he hear it ringing in his head the way she did?

“I don’t want a witch this time,” Rutgar said.

Neither do I.

“Why not?” Lukas demanded of his older brother.

Rutgar looked at her. Britta tried to read his face. Worry? Confusion? Fear?

“Because of Harkeld?” she asked.

He nodded.

Britta looked at the parchment, at the place where Lukas wanted her to draw the witch. Harkeld, are you a witch?

Of course he’s not, she told herself for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Are we witches too?” The words burst from Rutgar, full of anxiety.

Britta laid down the quill. “No, sweetheart,” she said, reaching out to stroke the blond hair back from his face. “It was Harkeld’s mother who had the witch blood, not your mother or mine.”

“Or Jaegar’s mother?” Rutgar persisted.

“Or Jaegar’s mother.”

“Harkeld’s a witch,” Lukas announced.

“No, love. He’s not.”

“But he could be,” Rutgar said, the same mix of confusion and fear and worry on his face.

Yes, he could.

“Even if he is a witch, he’s your brother and he would never hurt you.” Britta said the words firmly and smiled at the little boy. “Don’t be scared of Harkeld.” Be scared for him. Father has a bounty on his head.

She picked up the quill again and dipped it in ink. “Now, where would you like the wolf?”

A knock on the door made her lift her head. Her armsman, Karel, opened the door. The mood of the palace seemed to leak into the nursery: edgy, fearful.

Britta heard low voices, then Karel stepped back and a bondservant entered the nursery.

“Princess.” The man bowed low.

She recognized him: he served her father. No. Not now. Her hand quivered slightly and a drop of ink fell on the parchment.

“The king demands your presence, princess.”

Her throat tightened. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. What shall I do without Harkeld to help me? She placed the quill carefully in its silver holder. “Inform my father that I shall be there shortly.”

“Yes, highness.” The man bowed again and scurried from the room.

Britta capped the ink pot.

“But you haven’t finished,” Rutgar protested.

“I’ll come back tomorrow.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I promise.”

“You made a mistake,” Lukas said, pointing.

Britta looked at the ink blot. “Never mind. We’ll turn it into a rock.”

She kissed both boys on the cheek, inhaling the scent of the cinnamon buns they’d eaten for lunch and the rosemary the nursemaids washed their hair with.

“May we start coloring it in?” Rutgar asked as her armsman opened the door for her.

“Of course.” Britta smiled at them from the doorway. “But let the ink dry first.”

She hurried back to her rooms. The sound of her armsman’s stride echoed flatly in the marble corridors. Memory came, Harkeld’s voice: You need to understand who our father is, Britta. He’s a dangerous man. I think he killed the boys’ mother.

Her maid was in the bedchamber, mending the hem of a gown. She glanced up as Britta entered.

“Yasma, my father wants to see me. I need a new overtunic. This one’s creased.”

Yasma scrambled to her feet. “Do you think—?”

“I don’t know.”

Britta unfastened her girdle and shrugged out of the wrinkled tunic while Yasma fetched a fresh one. A glance in the mirror told her that the silk undergown had survived the nursery unmarked by ink or grubby fingers.

Yasma returned with a sky-blue tunic in her arms. She lifted it over Britta’s head and settled the fabric neatly over her shoulders, smoothing the long folds. The heavy silk was embroidered with gold thread.

Yasma fastened the girdle briskly. “Your hair.”

Britta sat before the mirror.

“What do you think he wants?” the maid asked.

“I don’t know.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. Probably Duke Rikard. But neither of them said it aloud.

Britta watched as Yasma tidied her hair, catching up stray tendrils and weaving them back into place around the golden crown. Her eyes were drawn to the iron band of bondservice that gleamed dully on the girl’s arm. “A few days before he left, Harkeld told me something about Queen Sigren.”

“Yes?” Yasma said, her fingers moving deftly.

“He said that she argued with my father the night she died. About bondservice.”

Yasma’s fingers slowed.

“Sigren said that bondservice was barbaric and cruel, and it had to stop.” Britta glanced at Yasma in the mirror, remembering the first time she’d seen the girl, remembering the mute misery on her face, the utter despair in her eyes. “Father said that Osgaard’s economy couldn’t survive without bondservants.”

Yasma said nothing. She continued weaving strands of hair around the golden crown.

“Sigren disagreed. She said it’s the greed of Osgaard’s rulers that keeps the people so oppressed. She said that if we forwent our golden bathtubs, our gilded roof tiles, we wouldn’t need to raise taxes again. We could free the bondservants.” Britta stared at her reflection. The chair she sat on was gilded. The pins Yasma used to fasten the crown into her hair were gold set with precious stones. Even the mirror was gilt-framed.

“Father threw his goblet at Sigren and ordered her from the room. Harkeld said that was the last time he saw her. She died that night, in her bath tub.” A golden bath tub.

Yasma said nothing.

“Harkeld said...her death was no accident.”

Yasma met her eyes in the mirror. She lowered her hands and stepped back. “I’ve finished.”

Britta swallowed. She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. A princess stared back at her, a delicate crown woven into her hair. Gold thread glinted on the sleeveless overtunic. A golden girdle circled her waist. The long-sleeved cream undergown with its flowing sleeves was made of rich and shimmering silk.

Her face was as pale as the undergown, her lips colorless.

Father’s a bully, Harkeld’s voice said in her head. Never let him see you’re afraid of him.

Britta pinched her cheeks and watched some color flow back into her face. “I must go,” she said, turning away from the mirror. “Father hates to be kept waiting.”

Yasma didn’t curtsey. Instead, she reached out and clasped Britta’s hand. “Be careful.”

Britta returned the grip tightly, then she blew out a breath and strode into the parlor. Her armsman stood alongside the door, his feet the regulation twelve inches apart, his dark, hawk-like face expressionless.

He opened the door.

Britta marched through it. The armsman fell into step behind her.

She heard Harkeld’s voice as she walked: We will defy him over Rikard, but we must be careful. A bondservant scurried ahead of them along the corridor, his head lowered submissively, an iron armband pinched around his upper arm.

They came to a flight of shallow steps. The bondservant scuttled down them and hurried out of sight. Britta followed more slowly, her hand skimming the balustrade. The marble was smooth and cool beneath her fingers.

We’ll present Father with a solution that satisfies his greed and his pride: marriage to Prince Tomas of Lundegaard.

At the foot of the stairs, Britta turned right. The armsman kept pace behind her, his hobnailed boots striking echoes from the marble floor.

Stand your ground, Harkeld had said. We’ll wear him down. It’s a good match, better than what he’s proposing. And last week, before the arrival of the witches, their father had talked of sending Harkeld to Lundegaard to discuss the subject with King Magnas and Prince Tomas.

Britta turned another corner. Armsmen lined the corridor outside her father’s apartments, standing to attention in their scarlet tunics and golden breastplates. She halted at the door to the king’s antechamber. Dread squeezed in her belly.

She looked back at her armsman, seeing curling black hair, dark eyes, brown skin. If she told him to take her back to her rooms, he would.

“Please knock, Karel.”





KAREL FOLLOWED ONE step behind the princess. The antechamber, with its heavy scarlet hangings and gilded mirrors, was empty but for armsmen standing to attention.

The door to the king’s audience chamber opened. Prince Jaegar stepped through. “Ah, Britta.” The prince scrutinized his half-sister and gave a nod, as if approving of her appearance. He opened the door more widely. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

Princess Brigitta crossed the room. Karel followed. “You aren’t required,” Prince Jaegar said without looking at him.

Karel halted.

“A word of advice, Britta. Don’t cross him. He’s looking for someone to punish. I wouldn’t want it to be you.” A smile glinted in the prince’s eyes.

He’s enjoying this.

“Thank you,” Princess Brigitta said. She stepped past her half-brother. Karel watched as she surreptitiously pinched her cheeks, as she lifted her chin.

Be careful, he told her silently.