The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





THE LAST TIME Innis had healed the prince she’d felt his loathing of her, like something crawling under her skin. This time he was unconscious. The healing was much easier.

As she repaired the broken shoulder blade and rib, the damage to his heart, she began to get a sense of who Prince Harkeld was. Without revulsion and fear dominating his emotions, other aspects of him were discernable. On one level, he felt a lot like Petrus: a sense of youthfulness, maleness, vitality. But beneath those were other things. Her hands lay on his back. She felt the warmth of his skin, the movement of his body with each inhalation, each exhalation, but she was also aware of other things: confidence, stubbornness, determination, pride, honor.

Mixed with those things, tainting everything, was a turmoil of confusion and fear, a bitter edge of hatred, the sharpness of panic, a sense of helplessness, grief.

What had she said to Petrus? He’s like a mage who’s been stripped of his magic.

She’d been wrong. What had happened to Prince Harkeld was worse than that. He hadn’t lost one thing he valued; he’d lost it all—his home and family, his birthright. Everything. And he’d lost it through no fault of his own.

Innis realized she was stroking his shoulder blade lightly with her thumb, trying to give comfort. She stilled the movement.

She looked up as the door opened. Petrus entered. Behind him, guarding the doorway, was one of King Magnas’s personal guardsmen. A russet-brown hound lay alongside the man. Ebril.

Petrus closed the door. He was dressed in fresh clothes. His face was clean-shaven. “How is he?”

“I’m almost finished.” Innis stood and stretched. “Will you help me turn him over?”

They eased the prince onto his back. His skin was as tanned as Petrus’s, the dusting of hair on his chest dark brown instead of golden.

Innis pulled the sheet up to his chin. “Where’s Dareus?”

“Talking to the king. With Cora and Gerit.”

She nodded and smothered a yawn, looking down at the prince. His face was dark with stubble, the muscles slack in sleep. A curse shadow lay over him, but she barely noticed it. She’d grown used to the sight of them draped over everyone. “I don’t know how to shave.” Innis touched a finger to the prince’s cheek, felt the rasp of whiskers. “Will you teach me?”

“Yes, later.” Petrus took hold of her arm and tried to shepherd her towards the door. “Let me finish healing him. Go and bathe. Rest.”

She shook her head. “It’s fine, Petrus.”

“But—”

“I want to do it.” She pulled her arm free.

Petrus’s face tightened momentarily. “Very well.”

Innis watched as he left the room. Was Petrus angry with her? She shrugged wearily and turned back to the bed.

It was a bed worthy of a prince, with posts carved from dark wood and a heavy canopy of green velvet. The room was worthy of a prince, too—the deep fireplace, the branching candelabra, the windows with tiny, diamond-shaped panes. Tapestries hung on the walls. Hunting scenes: boars with spears bristling from their backs, stags brought down by hunting dogs, birds tumbling from the sky, pierced by arrows.

Innis averted her gaze. She sat in the chair beside the bed and turned the sheet back slightly.

She laid a hand on Prince Harkeld’s shoulder. There wasn’t much left to heal. Bruising, some swelling. She closed her eyes and let the magic flow down her fingers, let it flow inside him, along veins and arteries, along nerves, through muscle and bone. The sense of who he was expanded around her again. Honor. Pride. Determination.

Innis worked methodically, seeking areas of damage, repairing them: the bruising around his shoulder blade, the swelling in the tissues surrounding the fresh scar. She checked that no other ribs were cracked, letting her magic feel its way along each bone, and examined his heart one last time. It beat steadily.

Innis opened her eyes. She yawned. A bath, she thought, rubbing her face. To scrub the dirt of the past week off her skin, to wash it out of her hair. And then she’d change back into Justen.

She yawned again and rested her forehead on the edge of the bed for a moment.





FINGERTIPS TRAILED LIGHTLY across his shoulder, eliciting a tingle of pleasure. Harkeld blinked his eyes open. The fingers stroked over his skin again, feather-light, tracing a path along his collarbone, down his chest.

He captured the hand—a woman’s hand, slender and fine-boned—and turned his head. The room was too dark to see her face.

The woman didn’t pull away. She bent over him. He felt the soft brush of her hair against his cheek, the soft touch of her mouth on his shoulder. Her lips parted, her tongue tasted his skin.

Desire shivered through him. He made a sound in his throat.

She lifted her head and drew back. Her hand slid from his grip.

“No.” Harkeld pushed up until he was sitting. “Don’t go.”

She stilled.

Harkeld reached for her, drawing her towards him, cupping his hands around her face, dipping his head to kiss her. Her lips were soft, sweet. “Don’t go,” he whispered against her mouth.

Her lips clung to his. She leaned into him. She was naked. He felt the silken warmth of her skin against his, the softness of her breasts, the taut crests of her nipples.

Arousal flared inside him, hot and urgent. He gathered her to him, hungrily tasting her mouth, her cheek, her throat. “Don’t go,” he said again, fiercely.

“Are you certain?” Her voice was low, the accent familiar: a soft burr.

Harkeld drew back slightly. The room was lighter now, as if dawn broke outside the windows. He saw the woman’s face, pale, dark-eyed.





HARKELD WOKE ABRUPTLY. He blinked, trying to bring the room into focus. Tapestries. Light streaming in through diamond-paned windows.

He turned his head. The witch, Innis, sat in a chair alongside him. She was asleep, her forehead resting on the edge of the bed. Her hand lay on his arm.

Harkeld jerked away from her, sitting up in the bed. Memory returned: an arrow thudding into his back, Justen holding him up in the saddle.

He felt his left shoulder blade cautiously. His fingertips found the ridge of a scar.

Harkeld shrugged his shoulder, expecting stiffness, tenderness, but there was none. He glanced at the witch. She’d healed him while he slept.

She’d healed him—and he’d dreamed of her while she did it. He flinched from the memory of her fingers sliding across his skin, memory of her mouth on his shoulder, her tongue tasting him, flinched from the memory of his response.

He’d kissed her. A witch.

How could I have dreamed such a thing?

He pushed aside the sheet and scrambled out the other side of the wide bed. His bare feet sank into a thick rug.

Harkeld frowned at the tapestries, at the four-poster bed with its dark green canopy, at the embroidered coverlet folded at the foot of the bed. The room was richly furnished—and utterly unfamiliar.

He strode across to the window. The view was one he’d seen a thousand times: battlements, steeply sloping slate roofs. He was in King Magnas’s castle.

Below the castle were the tiled roofs and cobbled streets of the town, and beyond the town was the broad silver curve of the river Fors.

Harkeld relaxed, and then tensed again as he looked down at himself. He was naked.

He glanced around the room. No clothes were evident.

The witch sighed and stirred slightly.

Harkeld hastily pulled the coverlet from the bed. He wrapped it around himself and retreated to the window.

The witch lifted her head. She blinked, and saw the empty bed. “Prince Harkeld?” She pushed to her feet.

“Here.”

She turned towards the window, clutching the bed with one hand. The alarm smoothed from her face when she saw him. “You’re awake.” She flushed. “I mean... How are you feeling?”

“Perfectly well,” Harkeld said, with stiff politeness. “Thank you for healing me.”

Her flush deepened. She bit her lip and glanced down at the floor.

“Where’s Justen?”

“I think...I think he’s bathing.” The hesitancy in her voice, her shyness, had nothing to do with the woman in his dreams. “Would you like me to fetch him for you?”

“Yes, please.”

His eyes followed her as she crossed the room. She was too slender for his taste, her hair too dark, her manner too diffident. I don’t find her attractive, he told himself firmly. Not at all.

The witch hesitated at the door and looked back at him. “You’re quite safe. There’s a guard, one of the king’s most trusted men. And Ebril, too.”

He nodded.

She bit her lip and opened the door. He had a glimpse of a corridor and the burly back of a guardsman before the door closed behind her.





DRESSED, AND WITH Justen beside him, Harkeld went in search of King Magnas. One guard walked in front of them, another at their heels; even so, he found himself tensing at each doorway, at each branch in the corridor. His injury was healed, but memory remained: the thud of the arrow striking his back, the swiftly spreading numbness.

I should be dead.

King Magnas was in the smaller of his audience chambers, with two of his sons and Dareus. They stood around a table spread with maps.

Prince Tomas looked up as the door opened. “Harkeld!” He dropped the map he was holding. “Should you be out of bed?”

Harkeld shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“But you had an arrow—”

“The witches healed me. I don’t have a scratch on me.”

Tomas came across the chamber, grinning. To Harkeld’s astonishment, he hugged him, clapping him on the back, as if they were brothers. “You scared the crap out of me. I thought you were dead.”

“I...uh...”

King Magnas followed his youngest son. “My dear boy,” he said, embracing Harkeld. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Harkeld swallowed. Don’t you know I have witch blood in me?

The king released him and stepped back. His face was the same as Harkeld remembered: the broad brow, the deep-set eyes, the good-humored mouth. The lines creasing the king’s face were slightly deeper, the hair grayer, but otherwise he was unchanged. A man one could trust.

King Magnas’s eldest son, Erik, came towards him with his hand outstretched. “How are you?” he asked. “Tomas tells us you almost died.” He had the same broad forehead as his father, the same direct gaze, the same fair coloring.

Harkeld returned Erik’s handclasp. Why are you being so welcoming? I have witch blood. He almost opened his mouth, almost said the words aloud, and then he understood. King Magnas and his sons didn’t like him; they needed him.

Harkeld cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Have you eaten?” King Magnas opened his hand, indicating the food on a side table: platters of meat, loaves of bread, cheeses, fruit.

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Then join us. We’re planning your journey up onto the Masse plateau.” The king took his arm and led him across to the table with the maps.

“King Magnas has generously agreed to outfit us,” Dareus said, looking up. “Horses, weapons, supplies.”

Harkeld nodded, and accepted the goblet of wine Erik poured for him.

“And we’ll provide an escort of fifty armed men as far as the escarpment,” Tomas said. “It’s the plateau that’s the problem.” He pulled one of the maps forward. “See? That’s where you’re headed. The ruined city of Ner. A good ten days’ journey into the desert.”

“It’s barren country,” the king said. “There’s some water, but whether there’ll be enough for so many men, so many horses...”

“A smaller party would be better,” Prince Erik said. “But that would leave you without much protection.”

Harkeld stepped closer to the table. Pushed to one side was a map of the northern hemisphere, showing the Allied Kingdoms. His eyes skipped over the Groot Isles, where Justen came from, Piestany, Lirac, and Rosny, home of the witches—

He looked away. “Will I need protection in Masse? It’s Lundegaardan territory. My father’s men will scarcely dare to—”

“You should take no chances,” the king said. “Some of Esger’s men may reach the plateau.”

“And there are others who may decide to claim the bounty on your head.” Tomas walked across to the platters of food and chose an apple. “Bandits. Mercenaries. Fithian assassins.”

Fithian assassins? The skin on Harkeld’s back tightened.

“Or a farmer,” Justen put in. “Or a peasant. Anyone poor enough, or greedy enough.”

Prince Tomas turned to look at him.

“The weight of a man’s head in gold is a powerful incentive to commit murder.”

“Thrice the weight of Harkeld’s head,” Tomas said.

Thrice? Harkeld met Justen’s eyes briefly. The armsman grimaced.

“But even so, who’d be so foolish?” Tomas said, buffing the apple on his sleeve. “The curse—”

“The curse can still be broken if Prince Harkeld’s dead, sire,” Justen said. “All they need is his blood and his hands.”

Harkeld looked down at his wine. It was as dark as blood. His father’s voice rose in his ears: Your obedience—or I take your blood and your hands.

Harkeld placed the goblet on the table. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“You’ll take all fifty men,” the king said. “It will slow you down, but—”

Dareus shook his head. “Your highness, we have two more anchor stones after Masse. Speed is of the essence.”

“Thirty then,” Tomas said, and sank his teeth into the apple.

Dareus shook his head again. “Ten.”

They argued over the size of the escort for another hour, settling at last on fifty men until they reached the escarpment, and thereafter, twenty. The table was littered with maps and crumbs. King Magnas pushed away his goblet. “When do you wish to leave?” His manner towards Dareus was courteous, but Harkeld knew him well enough to see the revulsion behind the king’s politeness.

“Ideally, tomorrow,” Dareus said. “Although I realize that won’t be possible.”

“We need at least two days,” Erik said.

“Very well.” King Magnas nodded and pushed back his chair. “Two days.”

“Who’ll lead our men?” Tomas leaned across the table, his blue eyes alight with eagerness.

“Me,” Erik said.

“No, me,” said Tomas.

King Magnas looked at his sons.

“Not the heir,” Dareus said. “It’s too dangerous.”

The king thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Tomas, then.”

Tomas caught Harkeld’s eye and grinned. “It’ll be like old times!”

The witch departed. The atmosphere in the room lightened, as if an oppressive presence had been removed. King Magnas refilled their goblets. “How are my grandsons?” he asked Harkeld, wedging the stopper into the wine flagon.

“They were in excellent health, sir, when I saw them last.”

“My allying Lundegaard with your cause...do you think it will have consequences for them?”

Tomas paused, reaching for a piece of cheese. Erik looked up sharply from his perusal of a map.

By the All-Mother, I hadn’t thought of that. Harkeld’s fingers clenched around the goblet. “After Jaegar, they’re my father’s heirs. He won’t harm them.” He said the words with certainty, trying to believe them. “He loves them, sir.”

King Magnas nodded. He picked up his own goblet, but didn’t drink. Worry furrowed his face.

Harkeld glanced down at his wine, at the reflections shimmering on the surface, and then back at the king. Should I tell him Sigren died at my father’s hand?

No. Not now. It would only make King Magnas more anxious about the boys’ safety.

The king smiled. Harkeld saw how much effort it took. “How are they? It’s been a long time since I saw them.”

He forced himself to match the king’s smile. “Lukas wants to be a woodcutter. I gave him an axe, a blunt little thing, and he drags it wherever he goes. His nursemaid complains that he even sleeps with it.” There was an ache in Harkeld’s chest; it had to do with memory of the boys—Lukas’s dimples, Rutgar’s mischievous grin. “And Rutgar is mad about horses. He has a pony of his own, but he likes nothing better than coming up on my blood bay with me.”

Liked, he reminded himself. There’d be no more rides on that blood bay, Rutgar’s face glowing with delight.

Harkeld cleared his throat. “Rutgar and I have...had an arrangement. For each tooth he lost, we went for a gallop outside the palace walls. So far he claims to have lost twenty-three teeth. Once he lost four in one week.” He made himself chuckle. “The All-Mother alone knows where he’s getting them from.”

Tomas snorted, and King Magnas’s smile became more relaxed.





AS DUSK FELL, Harkeld walked on the battlements with Tomas, Justen one step behind, and behind Justen, two of the king’s guards. Harkeld glanced sideways at Tomas, seeing the fair hair, the good-humored face. You would have been a good husband to Britta.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Britta as he’d seen her last—sunlight on her hair, tears in her eyes, desperation in her voice. His throat tightened with guilt.

He’d done what he had to. Britta wouldn’t have survived the flight to Lundegaard; he barely had. Better that she was alive and betrothed to Duke Rikard, than dead.

I’m sorry, Britta.

He forced his thoughts back to the journey that lay ahead. Ten years ago, he and Tomas had been as close as brothers. They’d wrestled and practiced sword-fighting, had hunted side by side, had played pranks together. With Tomas’s older brother, Kristof, they’d explored the disused dungeons beneath the castle and—memorably—been lost in the warren of cells and passageways for a day and half the night. “You shouldn’t come with us, Tomas. It’s too dangerous.” It’s not a game, like the dungeons. No one will come to rescue us.

Tomas shrugged. “It’s you they’ll be trying to kill,” he said flippantly. “Not me.”

Harkeld halted. “If you die, your father will never forgive me.”

Tomas turned to face him. Behind him, the sky was shading into darkness. A breeze drifted up, making the torches flare in their brackets, bringing with it the scent of woodsmoke and meals cooking, the faint sound of laughter. “And if you die, he’ll never forgive me.”

“Tomas...” He looked away from that grin. “I have witch blood in me.”

“Not a lot.”

“A quarter. I’m a quarter witch.” Fear clenched in his chest. What if I’m a shapeshifter? What if there are feathers, bristles, and scales waiting to burst from my skin?

“Are you a witch?” The smile was gone from Tomas’s voice. He sounded wary.

Harkeld looked at him. “No.”

Tomas shrugged. “Then don’t worry about it.”

Harkeld laughed, a flat sound. “I wish my father had said that.” He dragged a hand through his hair. Short hair. I’m no longer a prince. Bitterness surged through him. He resumed walking. “Fifty men? That’s very generous of your father.”

“How do we know we can trust them all?” Justen asked, behind them.

“They’ll be hand-picked,” Tomas said.

“But even so, all it takes is one man—”

“The soldier who attempts to kill Harkeld won’t live more than a few minutes himself. There’ll be forty-nine other men trying to kill him. And me.” They passed a flaming torch. Tomas’s eyes reflected the firelight for a moment. “And what use is gold to a dead man?”

Harkeld glanced at the two guards behind them. Justen’s words echoed in his ears: All it takes is one man. He found himself wishing he had one of the witches guarding him instead. He hated the witches, but he trusted them not to kill him. He returned to one of Tomas’s earlier comments. “Fithian assassins? You weren’t serious, were you?”

“Why not? They kill for money, and there’s a hefty bounty on your head.”

“But there aren’t any Fithians in Lundegaard, surely?”

Tomas shrugged. “They’re like cockroaches. Turn up everywhere.”

To the west, the last of the light crept from the sky; to the east, stars were faintly visible. Ahead, to the north, was the Masse plateau and the first of the stones anchoring Ivek’s curse. Will I survive this? “I’m glad you’re coming,” he told Tomas.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

I would. I’d give anything not to be here, not to be me. Harkeld shoved the self-pity aside. “How far will you come?

“As far as you like.”

Harkeld’s spirits lifted slightly. All the way to Sault, then. “Where’s Kristof?”

“Down at the Hook. Refugees are arriving from Vaere.”

“Refugees?”

“More every day,” Tomas said. “We’re setting up camps. Father wanted one of us down there to make sure there’s some kind of order.” He sighed. “The All-Mother herself only knows what we’ll do with them all.”

“Bondservice?” Justen asked, his voice neutral.

Harkeld glanced back at him. The armsman’s face was as expressionless as his voice, his condemnation carefully hidden. “Lundegaard doesn’t have bondservants,” he told him. As a boy, he’d once tried to defend the practice of bondservice. As an adult, he couldn’t. A kingdom didn’t need bondservants in order to flourish; Lundegaard proved that past any doubt. “King Magnas rules quite differently from my father.”

And King Magnas gave his three sons command in Lundegaard’s army, gave them the opportunity to acquire leadership skills, to show their mettle.

Harkeld compressed his lips, remembering the times he’d begged his father for a role in the army, however small, remembering the times he’d pleaded for an opportunity to do something more useful than practicing his wrestling skills and exercising his horses.

Be patient, his father had said. I have greater things in mind for you.

Now he knew what his father had meant.

Harkeld bit back a sour laugh. He’d wanted to be useful; he’d got his wish. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms rested on his shoulders. How much more useful could a man be?

“Come back to my rooms for a drink,” Tomas said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Who?”

Tomas winked.





INNIS SHIFTED HER weight. She eyed the woman across the chamber from her. Lady, she corrected herself. The lady across the chamber from her. The lady who had all the subtlety of a tavern wench as she flirted with Prince Harkeld. She averted her gaze from the woman’s full, pouting lips and lush bosom, and scanned the room.

Tomas was a prince, and yet his apartments had little of the lavish opulence she’d expected. The fabrics were rich, the furniture handsome, the tapestries on the walls exquisitely stitched, but there was none of the ostentatious display of wealth she’d seen in Osgaard’s palace. No bondservants either,she reminded herself. Lundegaard might share a border with Osgaard, but their royal families lived by different philosophies.

Her eyes catalogued the room’s occupants: the impassive guard at the door; Prince Tomas, lounging in a heavy oak armchair by the fireplace, one foot swinging, a tankard of mead in his hand; Prince Harkeld, his mead forgotten on the table, his attention on the lady seated alongside him on the settle; and Lady Lenora, widow of a baron, leaning forward as she spoke, laying her hand on the prince’s arm, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. The way she sat, her back slightly arched, thrust her full breasts into prominence.

Innis snorted under her breath. Practically shoving them in his face. She looked away. When she glanced back, Lady Lenora’s hand had moved. It now rested on Prince Harkeld’s thigh. The prince didn’t appear to mind the lady’s lack of subtlety. He was smiling.

Memory flooded through her of the dream she’d woken from. She’d touched the prince far more boldly than Lady Lenora was now doing. She’d stroked her fingers over his bare skin, had dipped her head and actually tasted his skin.

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. Innis thrust the memory firmly aside and tried to look as impassive as the guardsman.

Across the room, Prince Harkeld laughed. He looked like a stranger, not the man she’d traveled with these past eleven days. It wasn’t just the cleanly-shaven jaw and the fresh clothes. Gone was the grim set of his mouth, the closed expression.

An attractive man, now that he was smiling. He had a strong face, a strong body.

Innis watched as Prince Harkeld laughed again, as he leaned forward and whispered in the lady’s ear.

The lady blushed, giggled, and whispered a reply. Her smile was coy, the glint in her eyes triumphant.

Prince Harkeld rose to his feet, offering his hand to Lady Lenora. “If you’ll excuse us, Tomas?”

Prince Tomas grinned. “Of course.”

Innis tried to be as impassive as the guardsman by the door and not let her disapproval show.

They traversed two corridors and climbed a winding flight of stone stairs to reach Prince Harkeld’s bedchamber, a procession led by one of King Magnas’s guards.

Another guard stood at the door to the bedchamber. Beside him lay a large russet-brown hound. Ebril. The prince looked back over his shoulder. “I shan’t need you tonight, Justen.”

Innis hesitated. There was a trestle bed set up inside, so Justen could guard the prince while he slept. How would Justen react? With a protest? With a grin like Prince Tomas? She settled on a wooden, “Yes, sire.”

She waited while the guards opened the door, while they checked the chamber, while Prince Harkeld and his lady—his whore—entered and the door closed behind them, then she turned and went in search of the other mages.

They’d been allocated a suite—three bedchambers opening off a central room furnished with chairs and an oak table. Petrus and Gerit sat by the fire, drinking mead and playing cards. They looked up as she entered. “He’s found himself a whore,” Innis said, shutting the door with a snap.

Gerit grunted. “Lucky him.”

“He sent me away, but...” She struggled to put her fears into words. “Shouldn’t one of us be with him? Just in case.”

“Isn’t Ebril there?”

“Outside the door. No one’s inside, guarding him.”

Petrus laid down his cards. “You think she’ll try to kill him?”

“No.” Innis shook her head. “I don’t know. She’s... I don’t trust her. One of us should be in there with him.” She felt herself blush. “I’d do it myself, but—”

“I’ll do it,” Petrus said, pushing back his chair.

“Thank you.” She bit her lip, and then remembered that Justen didn’t do that. “Once she’s gone, I’ll take over.”

“I will,” Gerit said, shuffling the cards. “That was serious healing you did today, girl. You should sleep as yourself tonight.”

Petrus nodded. He began to strip.

The shutters had been closed for the night. Innis unfastened one and pushed open the window. It was pitch black outside. Far below the distant lights of villages sparkled on the plains. When she turned back, Petrus had shifted. A snowy-white owl stood in the middle of the room. It spread its wings.

She stepped aside. The owl swept past her, the draft from its wings ruffling her hair.

Innis remained at the window after the owl had gone, staring out into the darkness. She was a Sentinel. She should be able to do what Petrus was doing: keep Prince Harkeld safe while he bedded Lady Lenora.

So why wasn’t she?

Innis rubbed a finger over the window sill—Justen’s finger, broad and blunt—feeling the grain of the wood. It was more than the invasion of privacy that made her balk. If I wasn’t a virgin, would I be so afraid of watching?

In not doing this, she was letting everyone down. Including herself.

Her hand on the wooden sill connected her with the All-Mother, with soil and rock and water, with her parents, buried on the other side of the ocean. She tried to recall their faces, but the eight years had blurred them too much. She could imagine their quiet disappointment, though, through the palm of her hand.

Innis pushed away from the window. Next time the prince takes a woman into his bed, I’ll guard him myself.





PETRUS FLEW AROUND to the prince’s bedchamber. Predictably, the windows were shut and the shutters closed. He found an open window two levels down and changed into a cat. A minute later he was in the corridor outside Prince Harkeld’s room. A guard stood with his back to the door, as far away from Ebril as he could.

Petrus retreated around the corner and shifted into the shape of a lizard.

Stupid son of a whore, he grumbled to himself as he hurried along the corridor. Thinking with his cock, not his brain.

The guard didn’t see him. Ebril did. The hound’s tail wagged faintly, not drawing the guard’s attention.

Petrus nodded to him, and darted through the crack beneath the door. The furniture in the bedchamber loomed as large as mountains: oak table, armchairs, the trestle bed for Justen. A fire was lit in the wide hearth—a towering bonfire—and candles burned in the sconces.

Petrus climbed the wall, working his way towards the four-poster bed. The velvet canopy cast deep shadows, but the candlelight let him see the bed’s occupants. When he saw the woman, her blonde hair spilling across the pillows, he understood why the prince hadn’t resisted. Lush mouth, lush breasts.

Lucky whoreson.

Petrus took up a position on the mantelpiece and watched.