The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FIFTEEN





“THE FINAL ITEM, highness, is the matter of your personal servants. Do you wish to take them with you into the duke’s household?”

“My maid comes with me,” Britta said, and watched as the palace secretary appended this to the end of the long list.

None of it felt real. The scratch of the quill as the man wrote, the words in black ink on the cream-colored parchment, were part of a dream. No, a nightmare. And it was real. Tomorrow she would become wife to Duke Rikard, commander of the king’s army.

“And your armsmen?” the secretary asked. “The duke is most eager to provide you with men of his own.”

Britta looked across the room, to where Karel stood at parade rest.

He was young, no more than twenty-five, at the beginning of his career. And he was one of the few Esfaban islanders who’d made it into service in the palace, the only islander who’d been assigned a royal charge. He’d want to climb higher, not to follow her into Duke Rikard’s household. “I’ll let you know.”

“Very good, your highness.”

The secretary gathered his things—ink pot and writing implements, roll of parchment—and bowed and departed. Britta stayed at the table, watching the sunlight move slowly across the polished marquetry, highlighting flowers formed from golden oak and birds hovering on outspread wings of walnut and cherry.

“Princess? Britta?”

She looked up. Yasma stood there, her face anxious.

“Is everything all right?” the maid asked.

“Perfectly.”

“Duke Rikard will be here shortly. Do you wish to change?”

No, I wish to run away. Britta stood. Her limbs seemed to creak stiffly. “A new tunic,” she said.

She stared at the mirror while Yasma tidied her hair, winding the strands tightly around the golden crown. “Princess?” the little maid said hesitantly when she’d finished. “Britta?”

Britta blinked. Her face came into focus in the mirror. She turned and looked at Yasma. The girl was clearly an Esfaban islander. She had the dark skin and hawk-like face—winging eyebrows, high cheekbones, aquiline nose—but her features were delicately drawn. She wasn’t pretty; she was beautiful.

Britta forced herself to smile. “The duke is allowing me to bring my personal servants into his household. I said that you’ll come with me.”

She saw Yasma swallow, saw the sudden sheen of tears in her maid’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Britta stood, turning away from the tears. “Do you think the armsmen will want to come?” she asked brightly.

“I think...Karel will wish to stay with you.”

She glanced at the maid. “Truly?”

Yasma flushed and lowered her gaze. “Yes, princess. But ask him if you wish to be certain.”

A week ago, that blush would have made her curious. Did Yasma and Karel have an understanding? Were they in love? Now, the weight of her own problems smothered any curiosity she might have.





PRINCESS BRIGITTA EMERGED from her bedchamber, dressed in an undergown of white silk and a long rose-pink tunic stitched with silver.

Karel glanced at her briefly, and then looked stolidly ahead as she crossed the chamber.

“Karel,” she said, halting in front of him.

He transferred his gaze to her face. “Yes, princess?”

“Do you wish to accompany me to Duke Rikard’s household? I had thought you’d prefer not to, but if I’m wrong—”

His heart kicked in his chest. Not go with her? “I wish to accompany you.”

“Are you certain? The opportunities for advancement will be limited.”

“I’m certain.” In her service, Osgaard was bearable. Without you, I would fill up with hatred.

“Very well. I’ll see that you’re added to the list.” The princess glanced back over her shoulder. “Yasma, when the duke arrives, please tell him we’re in the garden.”





KAREL STOOD WITH his back to a hedge and tried to concentrate on his task: protecting the princess. He scanned the garden—flowerbeds, hedges—but his gaze kept returning to the rose-draped bower, to Duke Rikard and the princess seated on the cushioned bench.

He watched as Duke Rikard spoke to the princess, as she replied. Above them, the rose bower arched, dripping with blooms. The scent drifted on the breeze.

The duke was eager to claim his rights to Princess Brigitta’s body. His hand kept creeping across the cushions towards her, kept withdrawing. He didn’t quite dare to touch her.

After tomorrow Rikard could touch the princess as much and as often as he wished.

Impotent rage rose inside him as he imagined the man rutting her. Karel discovered he was gripping his sword hilt tightly. With effort he unclenched his fingers and looked away.





DUKE RIKARD LEANED towards her. Sweat glistened on his cheeks. The expression in his eyes made panic spike sharply in her chest. Britta dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from scrambling backwards over the cushions. She was a princess, and she wasn’t going to cringe from him like a helpless bondservant.

She lifted her chin. “I shall be bringing some of my servants with me,” she said. “My personal maid, and at least one of my armsmen.”

The duke stopped leaning towards her. “I’m perfectly capable of providing armsmen for you.”

“I am aware of that. But I should like to bring Karel with me.” She looked across to where he stood, the sunlight glinting on his black hair, on his golden breastplate.

The duke followed her gaze. “An islander.” His voice held a sneer.

“Yes.”

Her armsman stood at parade rest, his feet twelve inches apart, his shoulders back, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. He scanned the garden, his gaze resting on her for a moment, on Duke Rikard. His face was expressionless, but she’d learned during the past three years to read the tiny signs that told her what he was thinking. She knew when he was bored, when he was amused. Today he was neither amused nor bored. She saw a much darker emotion in his eyes, in the set of his mouth.

He hates Rikard.

For some reason, that knowledge made her feel safer. “Karel comes with me,” Britta said firmly. “He has been an exemplary armsman.”