The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





PERHAPS IT WAS because he’d almost died today, but Harkeld was hungry for sex. He couldn’t get enough of Lenora’s mouth, the delicious softness of her body. She was like a siren from sailors’ tales: the full lips, the ripe breasts, the rich curves of waist and hip.

And she had a siren’s skill at kissing, a siren’s skill at touching him, at drawing pleasure from his body. He trembled as she cupped his testicles in her hand, biting back a groan as she explored with light, teasing fingers.

“You’re everything I hoped you’d be, prince,” she murmured.

And you’re even more. More beautiful, more bold, more skillful.

He didn’t say the words aloud. He couldn’t talk with her caressing him like that, could barely think.

Harkeld reached for her. He wanted to bury himself in her ripe body, to lose himself in pleasure.

“No.” Lenora released him. She drew back, her smile coy, teasing. “Not yet.”

Harkeld dragged air into his lungs. Arousal burned inside him, urgent, insistent.

Lenora stroked herself, letting her fingers trail down the slope of one breast, circling the rosy nipple. “Touch me,” she whispered, looking at him from beneath her lashes.

That, he could do.

He did more than touch; he devoured. The softness of her skin, her feminine scent, were intoxicating. Heat and urgency swelled inside him until he felt he would burst from it.

Lenora arched against him. “Take me.”

He needed no second urging.





INNIS WOKE THE next morning as herself, not Justen. For a moment she didn’t know who she was, where she was—then everything settled into place around her. She pushed the coverlet aside. The other bed in the room was empty; Cora was gone.

She found Cora and Dareus in the main chamber, talking over the remains of breakfast. “What time is it? The prince! I should go to him—”

“Gerit is Justen this morning,” Dareus said.

“But—”

“This morning you’ll be yourself.” It was an order. “You’ve spent too much time in a shape that’s not your own.”

Innis bit her lip. But I like being Justen. And then she realized how dangerous such thoughts were. It was the way to madness.

“Sit,” Cora said. She pushed a basket of pastries across the table. “Eat. I recommend the nut ones.”





INNIS DID THE dawn exercises first. She hadn’t done them since she’d become Justen. Her limbs felt stiff and slightly awkward, uncoordinated. She went through the sequence four times—the stretches, the lunges, the retreats—before she was satisfied with her body’s response. Then she sat and ate breakfast. Cora was right; the nut pastries were delicious.

Petrus entered the chamber, yawning. He did the dawn exercises and joined her at the table. “Morning.” He reached for a pastry, broke it in two, and began to eat.

“How did it go last night?”

“Fine,” Petrus said, not looking at her.

Innis glanced at Dareus and Cora. A map was spread between them. They were deep in conversation.

She leaned towards Petrus. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said in a low voice.

Petrus stopped chewing. His eyebrows rose. She saw his confusion.

“Next time, I’ll watch the prince myself. I promise.”

Petrus choked and began to cough. When he’d caught his breath he said, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because...”

Because I’m a virgin. Innis looked down at the table. She pushed a crumb with one finger. “Next time I’m doing it.”

“You’re too young.”

She looked up. “Not too young to be a Sentinel.”

“Theoretically, you are.” He reached for another pastry. “Age limit for a Sentinel’s twenty-four, that I recall.”

“But I am a Sentinel, and I should be doing everything you do!”

“Not that.”

Innis felt herself flush. “Why not? I’m not a child. I’ll be twenty soon.”

“Because Gerit and Ebril and I can do it, that’s why.”

She studied his face while he ate. Petrus wasn’t a virgin, hadn’t been for several years. Were you afraid the first time you did it? She bit her lip, bit back the question. Of course he’d been afraid. Any mage—any mage with sense—was afraid the first time. So many things could go wrong.

But she was nearly twenty now. Old enough—despite the rules—to be a Sentinel. Old enough to have control over her magic, old enough to have sex and not unwittingly harm either herself or her bed partner.

If I wasn’t a Sentinel...

If she wasn’t a Sentinel, she’d be at home in Rosny, preparing to start her apprentice Journeys. And when the time was judged right—this year, next year—someone would be chosen to teach her how to control her magic during sex.

There was no one here who could do that. Dareus was too old, Ebril too young, too inexperienced, and Gerit... She repressed a grimace. No, not Gerit.

Which left Petrus.

Like Ebril, he was newly a Sentinel, too young to take the role of teacher. But even if he was older...

Innis studied his face—the white-blond hair falling over his brow, the long nose, the mobile mouth.

Memory came: for a moment she was twelve years old again, standing in the doorway of a classroom, trying to find the courage to step inside. Students sat in rows. One by one they turned their heads until they all stared at her. This is Innis, the Master said, his hand on her shoulder, urging her into the room. She’ll be in your class from now on. She wanted to shrink into a corner, wanted to run home, except there was no home any more and her parents were dead. And then Petrus caught her eye and winked.

“What?” Petrus said, his mouth full.

Innis shook her head. “Nothing.” She looked down at the table, pushed the crumb again with her finger. Since that first day at the Academy, Petrus had been like a brother. Sharing his bed would be...

She pulled a face. No, not Petrus.

Unbidden, an image of Prince Harkeld slid into her mind. As he’d been in the dream, naked, reaching for her. She pushed it firmly away. When she returned to Rosny, once the curse was broken, there’d be time enough for that aspect of her training.





AFTER LUNCH, WHEN she was back in Justen’s shape, back in her place at Prince Harkeld’s side, they went down to the training ground. Gerit trotted at their heels, a grizzled brown mastiff, and behind him were two of King Magnas’s guards.

“Ready?” the prince asked, stripping off his shirt.

The training ground was a courtyard of packed dirt covered with sawdust. They weren’t the only people there—half a dozen men wrestled or practiced their sword play. Stone walls rose on all four sides. Innis glanced up, scanning the windows that overlooked them. The eastern wall had an open gallery. It was empty, but even so... She laid her hand on her sword hilt, and released it as she saw a creamy-white dove circle down and land on the parapet. The faint shimmer surrounding the bird told her it was a shapeshifter; the color told her it was Petrus.

Innis unbuckled the sword belt and dropped it on the ground. Her shirt and boots followed. “Ready.”

They wrestled for half an hour, until they were sweating, panting.

“Who’s winning?”

Innis looked up from pinning Prince Harkeld on the ground. She saw fair hair and a grinning face. Prince Tomas. She released her hold and stood. “Sire.”

Prince Harkeld raised himself on one elbow. “We’re even.”

“Looks like you lost that bout.” Tomas’s grin widened.

“I did,” Prince Harkeld said, wincing as he pushed himself up from the dirt. “But I won the one before that.”

“Not sure I believe you. Looks to me like your armsman had you whipped.” Tomas was teasing; his tone took the insult out of the words.

Innis grinned, and wiped sweat and dirt from her face. Justen’s body made wrestling much more fun. It wasn’t merely that she was stronger; she had more weight behind her, more leverage. She felt a dangerous flicker of exultation for a shape that wasn’t her own—and firmly quashed it.

“Grown soft, have you?” Tomas peeled off his embroidered vest and tossed it on the ground behind him.

Prince Harkeld narrowed his eyes. “Soft?”

Tomas shrugged, still grinning. “Flabby, weak...” He pulled his shirt over his head.

Innis swallowed a grin. Prince Harkeld was as lean, as muscled, as the guards who protected him.

“Flabby?”

Tomas kicked off his boots. “Uh huh. Flabby.”

“Then I wonder you care to fight me.”

Tomas shrugged. “For old times’ sake. Unless...are you sure you’re not too tired?” His tone was mock-solicitous.

Prince Harkeld flexed his hands and bared his teeth in a grin. “Try me.”

Innis heard a murmur of feminine voices and glanced behind her. The gallery was no longer empty. A handful of noblewomen clustered there.

The pale dove sat on the parapet, watching too.

Innis turned her attention to the princes. There was nothing elegant about their wrestling, nothing restrained; it was rough, almost brutal.

Prince Harkeld won the first bout, emphatically. “Flabby?” he said. “Soft?”

“Soft as a girl,” Tomas said, as he lay gasping on the dirt.

The prince grunted, and hauled Tomas to his feet. “Then what does that make you?”

The next bout was over almost before it had started. Tomas took Prince Harkeld down so fast, so hard, that Innis winced. “Soft,” Tomas said, panting. “See?”

The prince spat sawdust from his mouth and pushed to his feet. “I’ll show you soft.”

Innis picked up her discarded shirt and walked across to the water butt beneath the gallery. She cupped her hands and drank, then washed the sweat and dirt from her face, her arms, her torso.

Behind her, someone grunted as they hit the ground. She turned and watched the princes grapple, rolling in the dirt, muscles straining as they each sought to overpower the other. The way they wrestled, they way they teased each other, had the familiarity of an old friendship.

I’m glad Tomas is coming with us. Prince Harkeld needs a friend.

She watched as Prince Harkeld pinned Tomas, as he laughed in triumph and then sat back on his heels, grinning. This is who he used to be. Before we came and his life fell apart.

“I enjoy watching wrestling. It’s so animal.”

Innis jerked her head around. A lady stood beside her. Her gown was cut low across her bosom, showing creamy skin and a magnificent cleavage.

“I watched you wrestle.” Lenora looked up at her from beneath curling eyelashes. “You’re very skilled.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s your name, armsman?”

“Uh...Justen. Ma’am.”

Lenora laid a hand on her arm. “You’re very strong.” Her fingertips stroked lightly. “Very well-muscled.”

Innis blinked. Was Lenora flirting with Justen?

“I like well-muscled men. They have more stamina.” Lenora smiled up at her. “I’m sure your master would spare you for an hour, Justen.”

Innis jerked her arm free of those stroking fingers. “No, thank you.”

The lady didn’t lose her smile. “No?” She touched the neckline of her bodice. Her fingertips followed the curve of fabric until it reached its lowest point, then wandered up, over the lace trim, to rest against her skin and the deep valley of her cleavage.

“No.” Innis stepped back a pace, flustered. She hauled the shirt roughly over her head. It clung to her wet skin.

The lady’s eyes fastened on her chest—on Justen’s chest, its ridges of muscles clearly defined by the damp fabric. “You’d enjoy it,” she said in a low, purring voice, her finger skimming lightly over the curve of one full breast. “I’d see to that.”

Innis flushed, and stepped back another pace. She crossed her arms and grabbed the first words she could think of: “I have no interest in my master’s whores.”

Lenora’s mouth opened in a gasp. There was a second of stunned silence, then: “I beg your pardon, armsman?”

Innis bit her tongue. She didn’t repeat the words.

Color rose in Lenora’s cheeks. “How dare you speak to me like that, armsman! I’m a baroness!” She turned and stalked from the training ground, the hem of her gown swirling angrily about her ankles.

Innis screwed her face up in a grimace. Fool, she told herself. Next time a woman flirts with you, don’t panic. Justen would never be so insulting, whatever the provocation.

She glanced around. No one had witnessed the exchange; Prince Harkeld and Prince Tomas were still wrestling, the ladies in the gallery were still watching, as were the guards. Even the hound, Gerit, had his attention on the two princes.

A creamy-white dove swooped down to perch on the edge of the water butt. It cocked its head, looking at her with one bright eye, and made a chuckling sound.

Innis felt herself flush. How much had Petrus seen? “Go away,” she whispered.

The dove fluffed its feathers flirtatiously and sidled closer.

Her face grew hotter. “Go away!” she hissed, flapping her hand.

Petrus made the chuckling sound again, then, to her relief, he spread his wings and flew away. Innis turned her attention to the wrestlers. They were on the ground, straining for dominance, grunting, grimacing.

Animal, Lady Lenora had said, and that was precisely what the princes looked like: animals.





PETRUS CIRCLED UP from the training ground, skimmed over the slate roofs of the castle, and swooped down into the next courtyard. Lenora was crossing it. The angry flounce of her hips, the flush of color in her cheeks, drew his eyes. He remembered the things he’d seen her do last night. If it was me who was Justen, I wouldn’t have said no. He circled slowly, letting himself imagine what could have been.

A nobleman swept Lenora an admiring bow. She halted.

Petrus circled idly, watching as she preened, as she tossed her blonde hair, as she laughed. The man’s glance was openly appreciative.

Lenora placed her hand on the nobleman’s arm.

Petrus flew lower for a closer look. The man had swarthy skin and dark hair.

Lenora tossed her hair again. She raised her other hand and placed it casually on her bodice and let her fingers trail around the neckline of her gown until they rested at her cleavage, as she’d done with Innis.

Petrus saw the nobleman swallow.

Lenora smiled. She leaned close and whispered something in the nobleman’s ear.

The man swallowed again. He didn’t jerk back, as Innis had done. He placed his hand over Lenora’s where it lay on his arm.

Petrus watched as they crossed the stone-flagged courtyard, Lenora’s expression triumphant, the nobleman’s dazed, as if he couldn’t quite believe his good fortune. He flapped his wings crossly, climbing out of the courtyard. That could have been me!

He spent the next half hour irritably patrolling the castle, looking in courtyards, in stable yards, in windows, checking for anything sinister—

Petrus hurriedly circled back. Was that...?

Yes. Lenora and the swarthy nobleman. Glimpsed through a diamond-paned window.

Petrus landed on the window sill and glared at the nobleman. Thrice-cursed son of a whore! Those could have been his own hands exploring Lenora’s lush body, his own teeth nipping her breasts—

Nipping?

Lenora didn’t appear to mind the nobleman’s roughness. She was urging him on, biting him, raking her nails down his back. He saw her lips form words: harder, rougher, faster.

Petrus backed away from the window. A reflection in one of the panes caught his eye. With a squawk, he launched himself backwards. Feathers puffed in the air as something struck him. He plummeted several yards before his wings caught the updraft.

His heart beat quickly as he clawed his way up through the air until he was level with the window. A black and white cat glared at him from the sill, lashing its tail.

Petrus flew swiftly away from Lenora’s window, his heart pounding. Slate roofs flashed beneath his wings. Idiot! You just about got yourself eaten by a cat!