The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





PETRUS SAT, HOLDING Innis’s hand with both of his, pouring his magic into her. There was so much damage—he was aware of the grating edges of broken bones, aware of blood leaking inside her body. He tightened his grip and directed his attention to the puncture wound in her right lung. The broken ribs he’d mend later. Right now he needed her to breathe.

Dareus cradled Innis’s head in his hands, a look of utter concentration on his face. The others stood around the bed—Cora, Gerit, Ebril, Prince Harkeld. “He got what he deserved,” the prince said, his voice tight with anger. “Forcing himself on Lenora.”

“It wasn’t Justen,” Petrus said, not bothering to look at him. “Justen refused her.”

Prince Harkeld uttered a disbelieving laugh.

“It was a nobleman,” Petrus said, looking up. “A man with black hair.”

“You think I’d believe the word of a witch over the word of a lady?”

Rage flared inside him. He pushed to his feet. “You whoreson—”

“Sit down, Petrus.” Dareus’s voice was flat, hard.

Petrus clenched his jaw. Rage vibrated inside him. He sat slowly and took hold of Innis’s hand again. “It was a black-haired nobleman. He was rough, but your precious Lenora enjoyed it. She wanted more.”

Prince Harkeld’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “And you know this how?”

“I was patrolling as a bird.”

The prince turned away from the bed. “Justen raped her. And now he’s been punished.” He strode to the door and jerked it open. “Don’t bother healing him. He’s not my armsman any more.”

The door shut loudly.

“Ebril, stay with him,” Dareus said, not looking up from his task. “And you too, Gerit.”

Gerit grumbled under his breath as he shifted. Cora opened the door and let them out, hound and pigeon. “And me?” she asked Dareus.

Dareus didn’t answer for a long moment. Finally he said, “Petrus, what did you see?”

Petrus told them, while he held Innis’s hand and focused on the gash in her lung, laboriously coaxing the edges of the wound closed. There was silence when he’d finished.

“How rough was he?” Cora asked.

“I saw him bite her.”

Cora glanced at Dareus. “You want me to find him?”

“Is it worth it?” Petrus asked. “We don’t need Justen any more, do we? Innis can be herself.” If she survives this. If she ever wakes up and can change herself back.

“I want him to have an armsman we trust implicitly.”

“One of King Magnas’s men.”

“Let’s decide that once Innis is healed. For now...Cora, see if you can find this nobleman.”

Cora nodded. “I’ll do my best.” The door shut quietly behind her.

Petrus looked down at Justen, at Innis. The punctured lung was mended—after a fashion. He had nowhere near Innis’s strength at healing, or her finesse. She was breathing more easily now, but there were so many other injuries, damage that was beyond his abilities to heal. He felt despair. “We need her to wake up. I’m not a strong enough healer. Neither of us is.”

“She’ll wake.”

Will she? Petrus tightened his grip on her hand and drew on his healing magic again, focusing his attention on the blood leaking from her spleen. Come on, Innis, he urged her silently.Wake up.





HARKELD GLARED OUT over the parapet of the topmost tower. I should have ripped off his balls. If that witch Gerit hadn’t interfered—

“Harkeld.”

He turned his head. Three people stood behind him. Tomas, the witch Cora, and a man he’d never seen before. A nobleman, by his dress.

“There’s a matter that needs to be dealt with,” Tomas said, his face, for once, quite serious.

“What?”

“Lenora’s claim that your armsman forced himself upon her.”

Harkeld stiffened. “It’s not a claim. Isaw the bruises.” He transferred his gaze to the witch. What was she trying to do? Twist the truth? Confuse Tomas with her lies?

“Your armsman didn’t visit Lenora this afternoon. Count Viktor did.”

“Who?” Harkeld focused on the stranger, seeing him clearly for the first time: a stocky young man with black hair. His eyes narrowed. “You were with her?”

The man swallowed. “She invited me to spend some time with her.”

“Invited?” Harkeld shook his head. “Someone took her by force.”

Alarm widened the nobleman’s eyes. “No, I didn’t force—”

Harkeld took a step towards the man. “She had bruises. Bite marks!”

The nobleman shrank back. “She wanted it like that. Like an animal, she said. She asked me to bite her. She...she bit me.” He flushed. “I only did what she asked.” He glanced at Tomas, his eyes pleading. “I wanted to please her. I wanted her to invite me again.”

Harkeld shook his head. “Why would she say that Justen—” He stopped, remembering the blond witch’s words. Justen had refused Lenora’s invitation.

“Why don’t we ask Lenora?” Tomas said.

Harkeld hesitated. He looked at the witch. Was this some sly magic she was working? Weaving lies into truth?

“Lenora shares her favors with a number of men,” Tomas said. “Sometimes she does like it rough.”

Harkeld glanced sharply at him.

Tomas shrugged. “You’re not the only prince who’s enjoyed her bed.”

Harkeld turned his back to Tomas and stared at the horizon. The sun was sinking towards the mountains. Had Lenora lied to him?

No.

But he was no longer utterly convinced. “Very well. Let’s ask her.”





THEY TRAILED DOWN stairs and along corridors—himself and Tomas, Count Viktor, the witch, the guards and the russet-brown hound. Harkeld’s thoughts ran in tight circles. If Lenora had been lying—

He recoiled from that possibility. It didn’t bear thinking about. She had to have told the truth, because otherwise...

His hands clenched.

At the door to Lenora’s suite, Harkeld inhaled a deep breath. Beside him, the nobleman swallowed audibly.

One of the guards knocked. After a moment, a maid opened the door. She curtseyed low when she saw Prince Tomas.

“Is your mistress in?” Tomas asked.

The maid’s eyes flicked anxiously from one face to another. “Yes, sire. Please come in. I’ll fetch her.”

She scurried across the parlor, but the door to the bedchamber opened before she reached it. Lenora emerged. “Olga, who is it?” She looked past the maid and smiled warmly. “Prince Tomas.” And then her gaze went to Harkeld, to Count Viktor. Her expression froze.

He didn’t need to hear Lenora speak; guilt was written on her face.

Harkeld turned and pushed his way through the people crowding the doorway.

He retraced the route they’d taken, up what seemed like a thousand stairs, until he burst out onto the top of the highest tower.

Two guards followed him, panting.

Go away! he wanted to shout at them. I need to be alone.

He turned his back to them, to the witch-dog that followed at their heels, and strode to the parapet. He stared out across Lundegaard, his hands gripping the stone.

The sun sank behind the Graytooth Mountains. The sky darkened, from pale lavender to indigo to a deep blue-black. And still he stood there.

Footsteps approached. Harkeld heard the heavy breathing of someone who’d climbed a lot of stairs. He didn’t look around. Leave me alone.

“Harkeld?”

The voice was familiar. Tomas.

His friend came to stand alongside him. They stood in silence for several minutes, looking out at the darkness, at the lights flickering below on the plains.

“Did she say why?” Harkeld asked finally.

“She had a lot of excuses.” Tomas turned and leaned against the parapet. “She felt insulted. She’s not used to being turned down.”

Of course she’s not. Not with that face, that body.

Harkeld closed his eyes. “I almost killed Justen.”

Tomas said nothing for a moment, and then: “The witches will heal him.”

That’s not the point.

Harkeld pushed away from the parapet.

Tomas followed. “Where are you going?”





NOTHING HAD CHANGED in the bedchamber. Justen lay motionless on the bed, Dareus cradling his head, Petrus clasping one hand. Harkeld halted in the doorway and stared at his armsman’s face—eyes blackened and swollen shut, nose broken, mouth bloodied.

I did that.

Harkeld closed the door quietly behind him, shutting out Tomas and the guards. “Will he be all right?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” Dareus said.

“But...you healed me. The arrow—”

“That was one injury. This is many. And the head injury is serious.”

Harkeld advanced into the room. He looked down at his armsman. Sharp emotions swelled in his chest. Strongest was guilt. “Lenora lied. Justen didn’t harm her.”

Petrus glanced at him. His hair was silver in the candlelight. His eyes glittered with hatred. “I told you that.”

“I know,” Harkeld said. “I apologize.”

The witch’s mouth tightened, his lips thinning. “Tell that to Justen.”

“I shall.”

Harkeld stared down at his armsman. Justen was ominously still. He looked dead. “Where’s Innis? Isn’t she your best healer? Justen needs her—”

“She’s resting,” Dareus said. “The healing is difficult. Draining. We’re taking it in turns.” He looked old, weary, lines deeply engraved on his face.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Petrus uttered a sound that was too harsh to be a laugh. “It’s a bit late for that!”

“Petrus,” Dareus said quietly.

The witch closed his mouth. His lips thinned again.

“Thank you, Prince Harkeld,” Dareus said. “But there’s nothing you can do.”

Harkeld nodded. He stared down at the armsman, his throat tight. “If you think of any way I can help...please tell me.”

He turned away from the bed and let himself quietly out of the room.