The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO





IT WAS AN eight-day journey to the cliffs that thrust up to the Masse plateau. They rode with their escort surrounding them: ten men in close formation protecting the prince, the remaining forty scouring the countryside around them.

Innis traveled as herself the first day. The castle atop its mount grew slowly smaller behind them. By noon, it looked like the humped back of a turtle crouching on the plains. By nightfall, it was the size of a peach stone. To the west, the bluffs kept them company, rearing up from the plains, thickly crowned by forest and with the Graytooth Mountains running in ridges behind.

They camped for the night in a hay field that had recently been harvested. Dareus gave her permission to become Justen again. Innis ate her dinner seated alongside the princes. The murmur of men’s voices drifted on the breeze, punctuated by the occasional clink of metal or snort from a horse.

“Which is my tent?” Prince Harkeld asked once they’d finished eating.

Innis looked around, seeing a small city of tents and campfires within the drystone walls of the field.

Tomas pushed to his feet. “I’ll show you.”

Innis followed the princes. Dried hay stalks crunched beneath her boots.

“Here.” Tomas halted. “This one’s yours. Bedrolls and blankets are inside.”

“Sentries?” Innis asked.

“Five,” Tomas said. “Four tasked with the camp, one guarding this tent.”





A SOLDIER’S BRASS lantern hung from the tent pole, a candle stub flickering inside. The huge shadows it cast made the small space seem doubly cramped. Prince Harkeld removed his boots and sword belt silently. Abruptly he said: “Thank you for choosing to come. After what I did—”

“Forget it, sire. The fault was Lady Lenora’s, not yours.” Innis shrugged out of her jerkin. The leather was new, supple and—best of all—didn’t smell of mold. The shirt was new too, made from sturdy cotton. Folded, it made a nice pillow. “I’d have done the same as you. In fact, I’d probably have castrated me.”

Prince Harkeld uttered a sound that was too harsh to be a laugh. “I was going to. Gerit stopped me.”

“Oh.” Innis unsheathed her sword and laid it alongside her bedroll.

Prince Harkeld removed his jerkin and shirt. His clothes were as crisp and new as her own. Nothing marked them as belonging to a prince. Should an attacker penetrate their defenses, he’d not know which of them to aim for.

The prince bunched his shirt into a pillow and asked abruptly, “Why did you refuse her?”

Innis lay down. She folded her arms beneath her head and stared up at the ceiling of the tent. Yes, why? What would Justen answer? Two moths danced in the candlelight, batting their wings against the lantern. “Because I’ve uttered my betrothal oath. I gave my word of honor I’d be faithful to Doutzen.”

Prince Harkeld frowned. “Honor,” he said, sliding a dagger beneath the balled-up shirt. It was one of Tomas’s, the hilt stamped with Lundegaard’s crest. “Yes, I understand.”

Innis lay awake for some time after the prince had fallen asleep, listening to his steady breathing. Honor was paramount to him—she’d felt that clearly when she’d healed him. If she reached out and touched him now, if she let her healing magic flow into him, what would the magic tell her? Did Prince Harkeld feel that in believing Lenora, in taking vengeance on Justen, he’d lost some part of his honor?

She half-reached towards him—then tucked her hand inside the blanket and turned her back to the prince. Sensing his emotions while healing him was one thing; deliberately attempting to read them was something else entirely.

She’d crossed many lines in the past two weeks; she wouldn’t cross this one.





THEY BROKE CAMP just after dawn. Innis swung up onto Justen’s horse. She settled the new baldric more comfortably across her chest. The hilt of the Grooten sword protruded above her shoulder, easy to grasp. The sword and dagger and the amulet at her throat were the only Grooten items she owned now—and the peeling portrait of the unknown lady. Everything else had been discarded at the castle, the clothes too filthy and moldy to launder. Even her boots were new, soldier’s boots, as sturdily crafted as the baldric.

They rode hard. Farmers paused in their fields to watch them and villagers stared wide-eyed as they passed with a clatter of iron-shod hooves on cobblestones. The soldiers reported no problems, but when they halted at dusk, a hawk circled down to land. Gerit. “A dozen men in the forest above the bluffs,” he said, pulling on his clothes. “A day or so ahead of us.”

Prince Harkeld looked at him swiftly. “My father’s men?”

Gerit shrugged. “At a guess. They’re not wearing uniforms, but they ride like soldiers.”

Innis looked west. The bluffs were pale, crowned with dark forest, and the sky a dusky pink.

“If they’re above the bluffs, we can’t reach them,” Tomas said. “Not until we get to Masse.”

Dareus pulled his lower lip thoughtfully and then turned to Gerit. “Tomorrow, try to get close enough to hear their conversation.”





GERIT LEFT NOT long after dawn. Innis watched until he was a speck in the sky, then turned her attention to saddling Justen’s horse. The bustle of the camp surrounded her: the jingle of harnesses, the hum of conversation, the nicker and harrumph of packhorses being loaded.

They rode as they’d done the previous two days: fast. Morning ripened into afternoon. Innis gazed around with interest. The cows in the fields were dun-colored, not black and white, the cottages were roofed with slate instead of thatching, but other than that Lundegaard looked no different from any of the Allied Kingdoms she’d seen—neatly-fenced fields, copses of trees, villages with market squares.

Prince Harkeld rode silently beside her, sunk in his thoughts. Above, a hawk swooped and soared. Innis shaded her eyes. A faint shimmer surrounded the bird. Its breast and underwings were cream-colored. Petrus. Justen would be blind to both those clues, so she said: “I wonder if that’s Gerit?”

Prince Harkeld glanced up and shook his head. “It’s the blond one. Petrus.”

Innis blinked. “How do you know?”

“They all look different.”

She frowned, her surprise unfeigned. “Different how?”

“The blond one is always paler, like his hair.” The prince glanced skyward, at the circling hawk. “Ebril is always a bit reddish, whether he’s a dog or a wolf or a bird. The other one, Gerit, is brown, and he looks older.”

“Older?”

Prince Harkeld shrugged. “Thicker in the body. A little gray.”

Innis stared at him. He was far more observant than she’d given him credit for. “And the girl?”

“Don’t see her often.” His brow furrowed. “Strange, that. Where is she all day?”

Innis cleared her throat. “Perhaps she looks like one of the others when she’s shifted. Like Ebril.”

Prince Harkeld shook his head. “She’ll be darker. Like her hair.”

Innis looked away, disturbed. The prince had noticed something few non-mages did—that shapeshifters kept some part of their coloring when they took animal forms. To change form was difficult enough; to change one’s appearance within that form took much more effort. “Perhaps she’s scouting ahead?”

The prince shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Innis chewed her lip. If he could tell them apart, what else could he see? The shimmer of a shifted mage? “Are you sure that’s a mage?” she asked, pointing at Petrus circling above them. “It could just be an ordinary hawk.”

“Maybe.”

Above them, Petrus uttered a faint cry and wheeled west. She shaded her eyes again and squinted up at the sky. A second hawk flew towards them, a faint glimmer of magic surrounding it. Gerit.

They halted long enough for Gerit to dress and swing up onto his horse. “They’re definitely soldiers,” he told them as they rode. “And they’re on the look-out for mages. The archers fired at me.”

“What?” Dareus swiveled in his saddle to stare at Gerit.

“Missed by a mile. I took care not to show myself after that.” He snorted, a contemptuous sound. “Stupid sons of whores are shooting at anything that moves.”

“Did you get close enough to hear anything?”

Gerit nodded. “The leader is a Captain Anselm.”

“I know him,” Prince Harkeld said. “An ambitious man.”

“He’s looking to claim the bounty on your head,” Gerit said.

“He won’t,” Prince Tomas said confidently. “Even if he arrives in Masse before us.”

“There’s another party ahead of them,” Gerit said. “Anselm’s following their tracks.”

“Soldiers?”

Gerit nodded. “Anselm’s trying to catch up, but from what I gather, they’re two days ahead. I had a quick look but couldn’t see them.”

This time Prince Tomas was silent.