The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FOURTEEN





IT STARTED RAINING during the night, soft rain that fell on her face, waking her. Innis pulled the blanket over her head and went back to sleep.

It was still raining at dawn. She woke, blinking, and stared up at the gray sky. Who am I? She groped at her throat and found the Grooten amulet, gripped it tightly. She was Justen.

Innis pushed aside the wet blanket and stood. Across the muddy clearing, Cora crouched at the dead fire, her plait hanging down her back. She snapped her fingers. The branches began to burn.

No one did the morning exercises. They ate quickly, huddled around the fire, then loaded the packhorses. A russet-brown owl glided down, landing beside Dareus. It shook its feathers and changed into Ebril.

“Pursuit?” Dareus asked.

Ebril wiped rain from his face. “They’re a good half day behind.”

“And ahead of us?”

“Forest’s full of them to the south. Keep going northeast and we should be fine.” Ebril looked at the dying fire, at the loaded packhorses. “Is there any food left? Ah, bless you, Cora.” He took the bowl of gruel Cora held out to him and ate quickly, hunched in a wet blanket, while the horses were saddled.

“Mount,” Dareus said.

Innis swung up into the saddle and adjusted the weight of Justen’s sword more comfortably at her hip. She watched as Ebril changed into a hawk and spread his wings. Water trickled down the back of her neck. I wish I had feathers instead of soggy clothes and boots that squelch.

She tipped her head back, watching the hawk climb into the sky, and then glanced at the prince. His face was averted, tight-lipped.

They mate with animals, he’d said last night. Their women give birth to kittens.

Innis grimaced. How could he believe that?





AS THE DAY progressed the rain became heavier, drumming down. Her world narrowed to the water streaming from her hood, to the horse in front of her, to the drenched form of Prince Harkeld, wrapped in Ebril’s spare cloak.

Finally they halted for the night beneath the outspread branches of a massive oak. Petrus glided down to land while they unsaddled the horses. His feathers were dark with water, bedraggled.

Innis hefted her sodden saddle on one arm and walked towards the fire. Petrus intercepted her, wrapped in a blanket. His face was weary, his pale hair plastered to his skull. “Change into yourself,” he said. “I’ll be Justen for a couple of hours.”

“But you’ve been a hawk all day—”

“And I’ll be myself all night. You won’t be.”

It was the rain that made her hesitate, the wetness of everything. The thought of stripping out of wet clothes, of having to dress in them again later... Innis shook her head. “I’ll be fine, Petrus. It’s not a difficult form to maintain.”

“Innis, change.”

It was a nuisance peeling out of the trews, dragging off the clinging shirt, but once she’d shifted, she knew Petrus had been right. It felt odd to be herself. Her own body felt too small, too short, too...wrong.

Petrus handed her the blanket. “Anything I should know? Anything he’s said?”

She shook her head.

“Go.” He reached for one wet boot, grimacing as he forced his foot into it.

Innis walked back to the oak tree, hugging the blanket tightly around herself. She paused and looked at the horses, the smoldering fire, the prince.

She’d felt naked wrapped in just the blanket last night. Not because of the other mages; because of the prince.

“Thirsty?” Cora asked, glancing up from the pot she was stirring. “Like some cider?”

“Give me a minute.”

Innis dressed in her own clothes, pulling them on over damp skin. The shirt and trews made her feel less exposed. They mate with animals, the prince had said, and last night she’d felt as if he was waiting for her to throw the blanket aside and run naked into the woods, to rut with the nearest beast she could find.

“Cider,” Cora said, holding out a mug when she returned to the fire. “But no tents. I know which I’d prefer to have.”

Innis sipped the cider. She watched as Petrus stepped into the firelight. Stubble was dark on his cheeks and throat. She touched her face with a fingertip. The skin felt too smooth.

This is me, Innis told herself, stroking her cheek. This is who I am. A woman, not a man. Yet her skin felt soft and hairless and wrong.

They ate a stew of dried meat, huddling with the horses beneath the shelter of the oak. Water dripped steadily from its boughs and fell with sharp hisses into the flames. Even with Cora’s magic, the wood burned sluggishly.

Innis looked across the fire at Prince Harkeld. He was unrecognizable as the prince who’d walked into King Esger’s throne room. He looked like the poorest of commoners, his clothes ripped and stained, his hair hacked short, his face dark with stubble and grime.

It wasn’t just his appearance that was different, his manner was different, too. He’d walked into the throne room with his head held high, self-assured, confident, alert. A man used to being noticed, to being obeyed.

Innis studied him, frowning as she tried to identify what was different about Prince Harkeld. It wasn’t that he was cowed or that the confidence was gone, it was more as if....

As if he’d closed himself off. He holds himself apart from us.

“More stew anyone?” Cora asked.

The prince glanced at her. His face momentarily hardened.

“Please,” Petrus said, holding out his wooden bowl. “By the All-Mother, I’m starving!”

Innis looked down at her own stew. She stirred it with her spoon. To him we’re filthy, foul, loathsome. She grimaced, remembering the prince’s words. Humans mating with animals. Women giving birth to kittens.

How could he think such things were true?

Because he knows nothing about who we really are.

Innis lifted her head. “Dareus? Justen wondered what a Sentinel mage is. I said you’d be able to explain it best.” She glanced at Petrus. “Didn’t I?”

Petrus paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. He stared at her for a moment and then shrugged. “Yes.”

“A Sentinel mage?” Dareus’s eyebrows quirked slightly as he looked at her, then he put down his bowl and turned his attention to Petrus. “Sentinel mages make sure that the rules governing the use of magic are upheld.”

Petrus glanced at her. “Er...rules?”

Innis gave him a tiny nod.

“There are certain dangers inherent in the use of magic. Take shapeshifting, for example. A mage who stays shifted for too long can identify too strongly with a body that’s not human, become stuck there. It’s a form of madness.”

Petrus pulled a face. “Ach, that doesn’t sound good.”

“No. The rules are to prevent it happening.” Dareus counted them off on his fingers. “No eating while in animal form. No sleeping. No copulation.”

Innis glanced at the prince. He gave no sign that he was listening. He ate, not lifting his gaze from his bowl. Listen, she told him silently. Hear the truth about us.

“There are other rules,” Dareus continued. “For example, shapeshifters are forbidden to make partial shifts—to become part one thing and part another—and they’re absolutely forbidden to take the form of another human.”

“Why?” Petrus asked.

“In the past there’ve been shapeshifters who abused their power. You’ve heard the tale of Ysaline?”

“The most beautiful woman in the world. Kings fought over her, nations fell...” Petrus paused. “She was a shapeshifter?”

Gerit spat into the fire. “Stupid bitch wanted to be a queen.”

“Any power can corrupt,” Dareus said. “Magic is no exception. It’s our task as Sentinels to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

“And if it does?”

“We stop it.” Dareus reached for his mug. “Magic is a responsibility. It’s not something that makes you better than other people. In the past, there have been mages who failed to recognize that. These days, there are rules. There’s us.”

Innis glanced at the prince. Had he thought himself better than a commoner because of his royal blood? Had he seen his status in terms of power or responsibility?

The prince looked up, as if he’d heard her silent question. His expression was closed, stony.

“If a mage abuses his power, we hunt him down and strip him of his magic. It’s one of the tasks we’re charged with. For that reason, only the most powerful mages may become Sentinels. Those who’re extraordinarily adept in one of the disciplines.”

“Disciplines?” Petrus asked.

“Shapeshifting. Fire magic. Healing. They’re the most common.”

Innis watched the prince. He ate his stew, giving no indication that he was listening.

“Most fire mages can do no more than this—” Dareus snapped his fingers. A flame flared at his fingertips for a second and then snuffed out. “Light a candle, start a cooking fire.”

The prince glanced at Dareus’s hand, and away.

“A strong mage can set fire to an object and control the spread of the flames,” Dareus said. “As long as he’s touching whatever he’s set fire to.”

Petrus nodded.

“But only the strongest mages—those able to throw fire and still control it—are capable of being Sentinels.”

Petrus chewed and swallowed. “And shapeshifters? What about them?”

“Shapeshifters...” Dareus reached for his mug. “A lot of shapeshifters aren’t capable of much. They can take one shape, perhaps hold it for half an hour. Some can’t even do that.”

Petrus nodded. Beside him, the prince had put down his bowl. He stared past Dareus, at the rain, but Innis thought he was listening.

“It’s not an easy skill,” Dareus said. “Every part of a shapeshifter’s body changes—flesh and blood and bone. I’m not a shapeshifter myself, but I understand it’s uncomfortable, even painful, to change shape.”

Petrus nodded again.

Innis nodded too.

“Shapeshifters need to have a thorough understanding of anatomy. They have to know each animal inside and out before they can become it. Most never learn more than one or two shapes. To be a Sentinel, a mage has to be able take a dozen or more shapes, and they have to be able to hold each one for at least half a day.” Dareus leaned forward. “You have to understand, Justen, being a shapeshifter isn’t just about taking another shape, it’s about having the strength to shift back into your own shape.”

“Or you get trapped in a body that’s not your own?”

“Yes.” Dareus nodded. “And then you lose yourself, become an animal.”

Innis repressed a shiver.

“That’s why all mages are trained,” Dareus said. “To prevent accidents like that happening.”

Petrus grunted and nodded, as if this was all news to him. “So, Sentinels are strong mages?”

“Strong mages. Strong fighters. Each Sentinel must be able to defend himself not just with his magic, but with weapons—and his bare hands.”

“Like an armsman,” Petrus said, scraping his bowl clean and licking the spoon.

“Somewhat. We protect, we punish.” Dareus paused. “Does that answer your question?”

Petrus glanced at her. His eyebrows lifted slightly. Does it?

Innis raised her chin, a tiny nod.





“WHAT WAS THAT about?” Petrus asked later as he stripped out of Justen’s clothes.

“He thinks we mate with animals,” Innis said, placing the amulet around her throat. Its weight felt familiar and right. “That we give birth to kittens and—”

“So?” Petrus said. “Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms thinks that.”

“I want him to know the truth.”

Petrus snorted. “He can hear it, but I doubt he’ll believe it.”

Innis pulled the shirt over her head. It was damp, and warm from Petrus’s body. “He might.”

“When hens grow teeth,” Petrus said.





HARKELD WOKE FROM a nightmare in which he’d become a bird. Feathers sprouted from his head, from his chest, from his groin. Down grew on his face.

He sat up, gasping, his heart thudding in his chest. It was dawn.

“Sire?” Justen asked, slitting open his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Harkeld touched a fearful hand to his chin. The rasp of stubble was reassuring.

“Sire?”

“I’m fine,” he said, pushing back his damp blanket and standing.

Nothing had changed overnight—the steady drip drip drip of water, the smell of wet soil, wet leaves, wet horses. “Still raining,” Justen said, coming to stand beside him. He sighed. “Ach, it could be worse. Could be winter. Could be sleeting.”

Harkeld grunted. He reached for his boots. The leather was cold, clammy.

Packing up camp took a matter of minutes; they rolled up the wet bedrolls and blankets, strapping them on the packhorses while Cora ladled gruel into wooden bowls.

A hawk landed while they ate. It shook itself and changed into Ebril. “They have our trail,” he said, taking the blanket Dareus held out to him. “But they’re still almost half a day behind. The rain’s washed away a lot of our tracks and the dogs are having difficulty with the scent.” He wrapped the blanket around himself and wiped his face with a corner.

“And ahead of us?”

“They’re trying to cut us off, but we should be fine. We’re further north than they think.”

Cora handed him a bowl. Ebril began to spoon gruel into his mouth, not bothering to sit.

“And the passes?” Dareus asked.

“They’re blocking them,” Ebril said, between mouthfuls. “But there are lots of passes, and only so many soldiers.”

“And on the other side of the Graytooth range?” Cora asked. “In Lundegaard?”

Ebril shook his head. “No sign of activity.”

“Choose a pass,” Dareus told him. “We’ll try to reach it tomorrow, before King Esger’s men.”

“And if they get there first?” Justen asked.

“Let’s hope they don’t. I’d like to avoid a fight. The risks are too great—”

Harkeld looked down at his bowl. He stabbed the gruel with his spoon. “Burn down the forest, if you’re afraid of fighting,” he muttered.

Beside him, Justen stirred slightly. “Can’t you just raze the forest?” he asked. “Get rid of the soldiers that way?”

“Using magic to kill another human is forbidden. It’s one of the Primary Laws.”

“But the archers,” Justen persisted. “Back at the river—”

“I burned their bows,” Dareus said. “Not the men.”

Harkeld glanced up. The witch could wield fire, but not kill with it?

“Cora and I have been laying narrow bands of fire. If the soldiers get too close, we’ll do it again.”

Beside him, Justen licked his spoon. “Does the rain make it harder?”

“Harder to start, easier to control. Fire wants to consume. The difficulty is always in holding it back.” Dareus stood, stiffly.

Harkeld stabbed his gruel again with the spoon. His protectors weren’t allowed to kill. We won’t make it out of Osgaard.