The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN





WHEN KAREL CAME on duty at noon, the princess’s garden was bustling with activity. Gilt and marble tables stood on the smooth oval of grass, set with silver cutlery, crystal goblets, and plates with golden rims that gleamed in the sunshine.

Bondservants brought sweetmeats and pastries from the palace kitchen, while musicians set up their harps in the rose bower.

The princess was already dressed in one of her finest tunics, a sky blue silk embroidered with gold thread. Karel saw at a glance that she hadn’t drunk any poppy juice that morning. She stood in the middle of the lawn, directing the servants. “There,” she said to a woman carrying a deep silver bowl of fruit punch. “On that table.” And to three men bearing gilded chairs: “Over there.”

The twenty-three reed baskets were on a table to one side of the rose bower, with the crystal vases now nestling amid freshly cut flowers. Yasma hovered over them, rearranging the flowers, guarding the basket with the moss green silk.

Karel took up position where he could watch the princess. Tension sat in his shoulders. With every minute that passed, Princess Brigitta came closer to her act of treason, closer to the possibility of being caught, of being sentenced to death. Stop her! a voice inside him urged. And yet, he couldn’t, because what she was doing was right.

If Princess Brigitta was frightened, it didn’t show. She was paler and thinner than she’d been before she married the duke, but there was purpose on her face and her eyes were clear.

Footsteps crunched on one of the paths. Karel turned his head and watched as Duke Rikard approached, preceded by three bondservants carrying gilded chairs and followed by his armsman.

The duke halted at the edge of the lawn and watched his wife for a moment. His gaze was greedy, possessive.

Not today, Karel told the duke silently. Can’t you see she’s busy?

The duke apparently could not. He strode across the grass towards his wife.

The princess’s voice faltered when she saw him. She shrank back slightly. Karel saw her lips move, I’m too busy, but she said it with fear, not authority.

The duke took her arm.

Karel reached out and tipped over a goblet. It fell with a clang, scattering cutlery.

“Oh, dear!” the princess cried. She pulled free of Duke Rikard’s grip. “Excuse me, but I can’t come.”

“Let the servants—”

“My guests will be here soon,” she said, backing away from him.

The duke’s face tightened in displeasure.

Princess Brigitta turned her back to him and hurried across the grass. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the fallen goblet and straightened the cutlery.

Duke Rikard turned away and strode back towards the palace. His armsman followed. Their boots made sharp crunching sounds on the path.

“He’s gone,” Karel said in a low voice.

The princess glanced at him. Her eyes were the blue of the sky, the blue of her tunic. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then she straightened her shoulders and turned back to directing the servants.





WHEN THE SIXTH bell tolled, the guests began arriving with their armsmen. Princess Brigitta greeted the ladies, accepting their gifts graciously. Yasma took each present and placed it on the table beside the baskets of flowers. Karel saw jeweled combs and gold-backed mirrors, mother-of-pearl brooches and delicate glass vials of perfume.

The armsmen arrayed themselves around the garden, their faces blank. The air filled with the sound of ladies’ voices,the clink of cutlery, the tinkle of harps playing.

Princess Brigitta stood out among her guests, her hair gleaming as golden as the crown woven into it. Karel watched as she spoke with various ladies, as she handed out her gift baskets. It seemed to him that a sword hung over her head, waiting to fall.

And then came the moment he’d been dreading: she picked up the basket lined with moss green silk and walked across to the wife of Lundegaard’s ambassador.





“LADY PIRNILLA,” BRITTA said. “Thank you for being my guest today.”

The woman turned from the rose bush she’d been admiring and sank into a curtsey. “The pleasure is mine, princess.” She was a regal woman, with brown hair and cool gray eyes.

“A gift,” Britta said, holding out the reed basket. “As a token of my gratitude.”

The ambassador’s wife took the basket. “How lovely!” she exclaimed politely. “Such an exquisite vase! Such beautiful flowers! Are they from your garden?”

Britta looked at the woman. Can I trust you? She took a deep breath. “Lady Pirnilla, the gift is more than you realize.” She had the sensation that she was leaping from a cliff. “I beg that you not allow anyone else to touch it.”

The woman looked at her sharply.

Britta lowered her voice. “Beneath the silk lining is some information for your husband. It’s imperative that you give it to him as soon as possible—and in the strictest privacy.”

Lady Pirnilla glanced around the garden, smiling. “What kind of information?”

“Information that’s vital to Lundegaard’s future. It must be given to your king.”

The woman’s gaze came back to her. Gray eyes regarded her steadily.

“I must beg that neither you nor your husband reveal that I’m the source of your information.”

The ambassador’s wife lifted a flower to her nose and sniffed. “And if my king should ask?”

Britta bit her lip. She looked at Yasma, standing beside the rose bower. The maid’s eyes were fixed on her, anxious. She returned her gaze to the ambassador’s wife. “Your king, but no one else. Else my life will be forfeit.” And that of my maid.

Lady Pirnilla regarded her steadily again, and then nodded. “You have my word, princess.”

Britta inhaled a deep breath. It’s done. “Thank you.” She glanced at the armsmen lined up around the garden, at the chattering ladies, at the musicians plucking their harp strings, and then she turned away from the ambassador’s wife and went to fetch another basket.