The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER NINETEEN





THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY was performed in the Silver Hall, a room of white marble, cold silver, and glittering mirrors. Armsmen stood around the walls, their uniforms bold slashes of color.

The princess wore white and gold, the duke the scarlet and gold of Osgaard’s army, with his plumed commander’s helmet on his graying black hair. Karel glanced at the man once—the smug smile on his fleshy mouth, the bright, greedy eyes—and looked away.

The last royal marriage had been Prince Jaegar’s, to a cowed little princess from Roubos. That ceremony had been held in the throne room, but the throne room still bore the marks of the witches’ attack six days ago.

Prince Jaegar’s annulment had been conducted with less fanfare, when the little princess proved unable to conceive. She’d been lucky to be barren; Osgaard’s queens tended to be short-lived,

Karel’s gaze settled on King Esger. Four dead wives. How many of those deaths were at your hand? Queen Sigren’s, without doubt. Queen Agneta’s—for the sin of producing one daughter and then five still-born babes—most likely. Smothered in her sleep, if the tales he’d heard in the armsmen’s hall were to be believed, while her daughter, Brigitta, slept in the next chamber.

Outside, the bell began to toll the hour. Karel counted the strokes: six.

The last echoes of the bell faded and the ceremony began. As the highest ranking male in the princess’s family, the king spoke the words binding her to Duke Rikard. His voice rang flatly in the Silver Hall, echoing off the marble ceiling. A score of nobles were present, those whose blood-ties to either Princess Brigitta or the duke earned them places as witnesses.

Karel’s gaze slid from King Esger to Prince Jaegar to Duke Rikard. Men of the same stamp, with the same brutal nature. Men of the same family, once this ceremony was over.

His hand flexed, clenched around his sword hilt, released.

Prince Jaegar stood at the king’s right hand, as an heir should. A smile gleamed in his pale eyes, as if he enjoyed the prospect of his half-sister marrying the duke.

Your mother was likely killed, Karel told him silently. Do you know that? Murdered in her sickbed, according to armsmen’s gossip.

Would the prince care, if he knew? Probably not. He’d have regarded his mother, Queen Hedrun, as a weak, complaining invalid, a hindrance, and disposed of her as Esger had done. He was his father’s child: ambitious, cruel. In him the Rutersvard blood had bred truest.

King Esger’s voice droned on. Karel studied him. The king’s frame was heavy with flesh, the bones of his face hidden beneath a layer of fat, but there was nothing soft about him, nothing yielding. The slabs of fat looked as solid as muscle.

A ruthless man. A man who’d killed three of his wives. Only Harkeld’s mother, Queen Elena, had died naturally, in childbirth, taking a second son with her.

Where were Prince Harkeld and the witches now?

Come back, with fire and lion-men, Karel pleaded silently. Save her.

But no commotion stirred the air, no gouts of fire, no beasts-that-were-men. King Esger finished reading the statement uniting the pair in marriage. He began listing the princess’s dowry.

The bride and groom faced each other, their hands clasped, while the king read down the list. Princess Brigitta’s face was bloodless. The muscles in her throat moved convulsively.

Karel watched her intently. Was she going to faint? Vomit? Have hysterics? Do something, he begged. Stop this. But even as he thought the words, he knew she couldn’t. Not if she wished to live.

The king’s voice droned on, listing the assets Princess Brigitta brought into the marriage. “And in her own right, my daughter shall retain the properties gifted her by her mother.” With those words, the ceremony concluded.





IN THE BANQUET Hall, its marble ceiling painted with gold leaf, the nobles of the palace waited. A cheer rose up as the bridal couple entered.

Princess Brigitta flinched and stepped back, almost treading on Karel’s boots. Duke Rikard raised their clasped hands high in a gesture of triumph, then strode into the hall, pulling her with him.

Karel followed, into the crush of nobles. The high ceiling trapped the sound of voices, trapped the heat of too many people pressed closely together, trapped the smells of perfume and perspiration.

Well-wishers swarmed around the bridal couple. Karel watched, sweating beneath the gleaming breastplate. The duke was enjoying the attention; the princess wasn’t. Her eyes were wide. She looked like a wild animal, caged and on display in a busy marketplace. Unable to escape. Terrified.

He wanted to reach out and grip her hand, steady her, tell her It’s all right, I’m here, I won’t let anything happen to you.

Except that everything was not all right, and he was powerless to save her.





TABLES WERE LAID with crystal goblets and plates of beaten gold. Once everyone was seated, bondservants began serving. Karel stood behind the princess’s chair and watched as the food was brought from the kitchens: whole boars glistening with fat, huge fish with gellid eyes, platters of tiny roasted quail, bowls of steamed and braised vegetables, loaves of bread, salvers piled with cakes and pastries, dishes of whipped cream sprinkled with sugar crystals and flower petals.

Princess Brigitta allowed the duke to load her plate with food and fill a goblet to the brim with wine. Karel watched as she cut a piece of pork, as she speared it with the tines of her fork, as she lifted it to her mouth, each movement careful and precise.

After a minute Princess Brigitta laid down the knife and fork. She didn’t cut herself more food. Karel tilted his head slightly to one side, trying to see her face.

The princess was still chewing.

Karel watched as she reached for the brimming goblet of wine, as she withdrew her hand. He glanced around, catching a bondservant’s eye. “A goblet of water for the princess,” he said, beneath the discordant hum of voices, the clink of cutlery on the golden plates, the melodies of the fiddlers and pipe players.

The bondservant scurried to obey.

Princess Brigitta was still chewing when the servant returned. Her face, when the man presented the goblet, lit momentarily with relief. She took the goblet, lifted it to her lips, and swallowed.

For the rest of the meal she cut her food and pushed it around the plate, creating small piles, but she never lifted the fork to her mouth again. Beside her Duke Rikard ate and drank lavishly. His face was flushed, glistening with sweat, glistening with triumph. He had a right to be triumphant; his years of loyalty to the king were well-rewarded this day.

The bells counted out the hours of the afternoon, and still the celebration continued, the voices of the assembled nobles ringing beneath the gilded ceiling, almost drowning out the musicians. Karel thought he heard a forced note to the cheer. Everyone was acting their part for the king.

King Esger sat at the head of the room, smiling benevolently. See, I am still strong, he was saying. I rise above last week’s catastrophe. But anger smoldered beneath that smiling mask. Witches had attacked him in his own palace. His son had dared to disobey him—and had escaped unscathed. He’d lost his chance to gain wealth and new territory for Osgaard.

Karel averted his gaze from the king. There should be exultation in his breast for the blow Osgaard had suffered; there wasn’t. He couldn’t rejoice, not when Princess Brigitta was bound in marriage to Duke Rikard.

He looked down at the crown woven into her shining hair, at the line of her neck and the delicate curves of her earlobes, at the pale, smooth skin. What Prince Harkeld had done was right—defying his father, vowing to end the curse—but also terribly wrong. He should never have left you, princess.

Prince Jaegar strolled across to speak in his half-sister’s ear. It looked friendly—his hand on her shoulder—but his fingers whitened as he gripped her shoulder and his voice was cold: “I’d smile, if I were you.”

After Jaegar had gone, Karel tilted his head to one side again. The princess was obeying her brother; a smile sat on her lips as she pushed her food around her plate.





“YOUR NEW HOME, princess,” Duke Rikard said, with a flourishing bow.

Britta stepped through the open door. The duke followed. “The salon, as you see...” She scarcely heard a word he said, scarcely noticed the layout of the rooms: the large salon with windows looking east; the formal dining room, the study, the bedchamber. Her heart was beating too fast, too loudly. Knowledge of what must come next paralyzed her. No. I can’t do it. I can’t!

The tour ended at the bedchamber. “I shall leave you to refresh yourself, princess.” Duke Rikard bowed and retreated. The door shut behind him.

Britta turned to Yasma. “I can’t do it!” There was a high note of panic in her voice. “I can’t!”

“Princess,” Yasma said. “Britta...I have this for you.” She placed an object in her hand, closed her fingers around it.

Cool. Hard.

Britta’s panic receded slightly. She opened her hand. A flask of green glass lay on her palm.

She blinked, drew a breath, focused. “What’s this?” She removed the tiny glass stopper. The liquid was dark, the smell bitter and faintly familiar. “Poppy juice?”

“Yes.”

Britta closed her fist around the flask. I can kill myself. She inhaled a deep breath and looked at Yasma. “Thank you.”

“It will help make it bearable.”

“Bearable?”

Yasma nodded.

“Is this...what you used?”

“Only once,” the girl said. “One of the other women gave it to me. It helped.”

“And the other times?”

Yasma’s face tightened. She looked away.

Britta looked down at the flask. She understood what Yasma had given her: not a way of escaping, but a way of enduring.