The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE





AHEAD, THE FIR trees pulled back from the road. There was a sunny patch of grass, a brook.

Jaumé nudged the old gray gelding towards the brook. Others had halted here before him—the grass was flattened and muddy.

He and the horse drank, then Jaumé sat in the sun and ate two of the pears he’d scavenged yesterday. Juice dribbled down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

The sunshine made everything seem brighter. He had a knife, a waterskin, a blanket, and a horse, and one pear and three apples left to eat. The curse was falling further behind him. If he just followed the other people on the road, he’d find somewhere safe.

The sunshine and the sound of running water, the sound of the gelding cropping grass, almost lulled him to sleep. Jaumé pushed to his feet and filled the waterskin at the brook. It was too early to stop. They could travel a few more miles before night fell.

When he turned back to the horse, someone else was standing in the glade. A man with a shaggy red beard and mud-stained clothes.

“This your horse, boy?”

Jaumé nodded, hugging the waterskin to his chest.

“I’m taking it.”

Jaumé dropped the waterskin. He fumbled in his pocket for the knife, pulling it out. “No.”

The man grinned. “What you going to do with that thing, boy?”

Jaumé gripped the knife more tightly. His heart thudded in his chest. “Go away.”

The man took a fistful of the gelding’s mane. “Come on, horse.”

Jaumé gulped a deep breath and ran at the man, holding the knife out in front of him. Sunlight glinted off the blade.

The man watched him coming, still grinning. He released the horse’s mane and swung his fist. It struck Jaumé in the face.

Everything went black—and then Jaumé was blinking up at sunlight. The taste of blood filled his mouth. He pushed up on one elbow.

The man glanced back at him from astride the old gray gelding. “Thanks for the horse.”





JAUMÉ TRUDGED ALONG the road, clutching the waterskin, the blanket, the knife. His nose still bled sluggishly. Tears leaked from his eyes.

The rumble of wagon wheels came from behind him. He stepped to one side and hunched his shoulders.

The family in the wagon stared at him as they drove past—a man, his wife, two young boys.

The wagon halted. The man looked back. He had a bald head and a long, curling black beard. “Had some trouble, did you, son?”

Jaumé nodded and wiped his nose, smearing blood on his sleeve.

“How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“Alone?”

Jaumé nodded again.

The man looked at him a moment longer, and then jerked his head. “Get in. We’ll give you a ride to the top of the pass.”