The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER ELEVEN





HER FATHER SAT on his throne. He was as motionless as the armsmen positioned along the walls. Only his eyes moved, watching her as she walked across the marble floor.

Britta halted at the foot of his dais. She sank into a low curtsey.

“Brigitta,” her father said coldly. “What took you so long?” Jewels set in gold glittered on his fingers. Anger glittered in his eyes,

“Forgive me, Father.” She straightened, biting her tongue to keep from babbling excuses. “I came as quickly as I was able.”

The king looked her up and down. It was hard not to cringe beneath that scrutiny. With every second that passed, her chest tightened and her heart beat louder.

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense about your marriage.” There was a harsh edge of anger in her father’s voice. “Duke Rikard is my choice of husband for you. He’s commander of my army. I see no reason why you should object to him.”

An image of the duke rose in her mind’s eye: fleshy body, cruel mouth, face glistening with sweat. Britta’s stomach clenched in a sick knot.

“Answer me,” her father demanded. “Will you, or will you not, marry Rikard?”

Britta swallowed. I’d sooner die than marry Rikard. She looked at her father, saw the rage swelling his face, and knew with absolute certainty that Jaegar was correct: Father would punish her in Harkeld’s stead, if she gave him the chance.

There was utter silence in the room. Britta heard her heart thudding in her chest. This wasn’t a decision about her marriage; it was about her life.





WHEN PRINCESS BRIGITTA emerged from the king’s audience chamber, her face was wax-like, pale and stiff. She didn’t appear to see Karel when he stepped away from the wall.

He followed her back to her rooms. Yasma emerged hurriedly from the bedchamber. “Princess?”

“I wish to change.”

Karel caught Yasma’s eye. Find out what happened.

Yasma gave a tiny nod. She followed the princess into the bedchamber and shut the door. Ten minutes later, she emerged. Her face was sober.

Karel stopped pacing the parlor. “Well?”

“She’s marrying Rikard.”

“What?” He took an involuntary step backwards. Not Rikard.

“The king says it’s a good match.” Yasma pressed her hands to her temples. “He’s commander of the army. And a duke.”

“He’s a thug! With the manners of a hog scrambling for the best place at the feeding trough.”

Yasma didn’t appear to hear him. “Karel, do you know anything about Queen Sigren’s death?”

He blinked. “What about it?”

“Britta said...she said Prince Harkeld told her it wasn’t an accident. He thought the king had Sigren killed.”

Karel nodded. “I’ve heard that rumor.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

Karel hesitated, remembering Queen Sigren’s death two and a half years ago, remembering the rumors rife in the palace—and remembering that the queen’s armsmen had been quietly pensioned off with fat purses of gold in the wake of her death. He nodded again.

“So does Britta,” Yasma said miserably. “So you see, she daren’t disobey her father.” She turned towards the bedchamber.

“About Queen Sigren, you mustn’t repeat—”

“I know.”

Karel held the question between his teeth while Yasma walked away from him, and then had to ask: “When is the wedding?”

“In three days.”





BRITTA SPENT THE afternoon in her garden. The things she normally delighted in—the scent of roses, the hum of bees gathering pollen—didn’t lift her mood. She saw only the clouds in the sky, not the sunshine, heard only the discordant crunch of her shoes on the crushed marble paths, not the birdsong.

Her eyes kept turning to the high stone wall that ringed the palace grounds. With Karel guarding her, she’d never escape. His footsteps crunched behind her on the path even now. He watched her so intently it was impossible to imagine evading him.

I could kill myself.

Britta turned the thought over in her head. Would it be better to be dead than be pawed over by Rikard? To share his bed?

Better to be dead.

But if she killed herself, Yasma would lose her protection. The maid would go back to scrubbing floors and being bedded by any man who wanted her.

I can’t do that to her.

In front of her a worm struggled to cross the path. “Careful, Karel.”

Her armsman halted. Britta bent and picked up the worm. She deposited it beneath a rose bush, where the soil was rich and damp.

I wish I wasn’t a princess.

But then what would she be? A commoner, living in a dirt-floored house, wondering where her next meal was coming from, watching her children die of illness and hunger? Or perhaps she’d be a bondservant like Yasma, condemned to a life of slavery, being passed from man to man because of her pretty face, bound into servitude so that her children might be free.

Isn’t that what I am? A bondservant, with no control over my own life, no say in who my body goes to?

Britta halted in front of her favorite rosebush. The petals were creamy white, glowing softly golden at their heart, the edges tipped with pink. She gently brushed a drop of water from one smooth petal.

No, her position was nothing like Yasma’s. She was being given to one man, within the laws and protections of a marriage contract. And she wasn’t twelve years old, as Yasma had been the first time a man had taken her. She was eighteen. A grown woman.

The petal was as soft as silk beneath her fingertips. Sweet scent drifted up.

Yasma survived. As will I.