The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE





KAREL DIDN’T SLEEP well. He kept waking, kept worrying. He rolled out of his bunk not long after the first bell. All around him, armsmen slumbered. How can you sleep? he wanted to shout. Don’t you know that something momentous is happening?

He busied himself sharpening his sword, mending his clothes, rubbing wax into his boots. Then he set himself to punching a horsehair-filled sack, slamming his fists into it until his knuckles were raw. When the third bell rang, he made his way to the mess hall, tense and exhausted.

Karel ate, not tasting the food. What was happening in the palace? Had Lundegaard’s ambassador acted yet? Had Duke Rikard discovered his wife’s perfidy?

His mind wasn’t on his training that morning; he lost two sword-fighting bouts. “Getting soft, islander,” the second victor sneered.

Not soft. Worried.

Karel washed the sweat from his skin, dressed in his armsman’s uniform, and finally—finally—it was time to go on duty.

He strode through the marble corridors, past bondservants scurrying on errands and strolling

nobles. The atmosphere was hushed, calm. No rumors echoed beneath the high ceilings, no soldiers hurried past with their hands on their sword hilts.

All was quiet when he reached Duke Rikard’s rooms. The duke was visiting his wife; the door to the bedchamber was closed.

The armsman assigned to Princess Brigitta was in the salon. “You’re late,” he said, even though the fifth bell was still ringing.

Karel ignored the jibe.

“Stupid whoreson,” the armsman muttered under his breath, and left.

Karel took his place in the salon: shoulders back, feet twelve inches apart, staring straight ahead.





THE DAY PROCEEDED on its course. Duke Rikard left. Yasma checked on the sleeping Princess. Karel paced the salon, too tense to stand still. Outside, clouds darkened the sky. The room didn’t glitter today; the gilt seemed dull, the crimson upholstery as dark as dried blood. He felt a sense of impending doom. The princess’s head was in a noose, and they all waited for the rope to jerk tight.

He swung around at the sound of a door opening.

Yasma exited the bedchamber. She looked as weary as he felt. She smiled at him briefly and walked into the formal dining room. After a moment, Karel followed.

Yasma sat at the long table, several large sheets of parchment in front of her. As he watched, she dipped a quill in ink and leaned over the parchment.

Does the duke suspect anything? he wanted to ask. Instead, he said, “What are you doing?”

The maid glanced up. “Drawing pictures.” She yawned and rubbed her face. “Britta wants to visit her brothers, but she says she has to draw them pictures first. I thought I’d do one for her.”

Karel strolled across to the table, trying to look relaxed. “What’s that? A dog?”

Yasma looked down at the drawing. “A horse.”

Karel reached across and took the quill from her fingers. “Here. Let me.” It would give him something to do other than stand and worry.

“But—”

“Lie down,” he told her firmly. “Rest.”





BRITTA WOKE TO the sound of someone moving in the bedchamber. The noises were too quiet for the duke. She opened her eyes. Yasma stood beside the bed.

“I have a drawing for you to take to your brothers.”

Britta bathed quickly, washing the duke off her skin, and then dressed. She knew she should be worried, but it was impossible when serenity cloaked her.

“The drawing, princess.”

She unrolled the sheet of parchment and blinked. Her mouth fell open. “Oh...”

Soldiers rode on horseback through a forest. Hidden among the trees, watching, were archers. In the sky above, a bird with a curved beak and outspread wings flew. Other animals roamed the forest. She saw long-tailed monkeys swinging between the branches, a huge serpent slithering up the trunk of a tree, a wolf with its head raised to howl. Stalking the wolf, axe raised, was a burly woodsman. Her eyes skimmed the drawing, noting the details: the feathers on the bird’s wings, the diamond pattern on the serpent’s skin. The animals almost seemed to move. Wasn’t that the flick of a monkey’s tail? The blink of a bird’s eye?

“Yasma, this is marvelous!”

“Karel did it.”

Her serenity faltered. Britta looked up, her fingers tightening on the parchment. “Karel?”

“I’m not very good at drawing.”

Britta looked at the picture again, but the spell was broken. She saw black ink on white parchment—trees, soldiers, horses. Nothing moved.

Slowly, she rolled up the sheet of parchment. Why had the armsman drawn it? “Do you talk with Karel?”

“Sometimes. He’s my friend.”

Friend. A harmless word. And yet...

“What do you talk with him about?”

Yasma blinked, looking confused. “Things.”

“About me?”

The maid flushed. “Sometimes.”

Britta stared at her, feeling suddenly afraid. “Does he know?”

“Know?” Yasma blinked again, and then understanding dawned on her face. “Of course not, princess! I swore never to tell anyone.” She took the roll of parchment from Britta, hesitated, and then said: “But he’s guessed that something’s happening.”

The room seemed to lurch slightly, and then steady again. “He’s what?”

Yasma twisted the roll between her hands, anxiety creasing her brow. “He could see that you were different. He...he asked me if you were planning something.”

Fear clenched in Britta’s throat. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t tell him.”

But he suspects. Britta tried to swallow, but fear was too tight in her throat. She turned away from the maid.

Yasma came after her, clutching the roll of parchment. “Princess, you can trust Karel. He won’t betray you.”

“He’s an armsman, Yasma.” Her voice sounded harsh. “He’s sworn allegiance to Osgaard’s crown. His loyalty is to my father, not me.”

“When you taught me to read, you did it in front of Karel! You trusted him not to betray us!”

Britta closed her eyes, trying to think past the haze of fear and poppy juice. “I trusted him not to betray you. Because he’s an islander.”

“He would never betray you either,” Yasma said. “I know he wouldn’t!”





WHEN SHE EMERGED from her bedchamber, the armsman was standing at parade rest on the other side of the salon. The scarlet and gold uniform was the first thing she saw, then his brown skin and black hair, his hawk-like features and expressionless face.

Britta crossed the room slowly. She halted in front of the armsman, holding the roll of parchment. “You drew this for my brothers, Karel?”

“Yes, princess.” His voice was as impassive as his face.

“Thank you,” Britta said. “The children will love it.”

He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, and opened the door for her.

Britta gripped the roll of parchment more tightly. Three years, he’d been assigned to her. Three years. And yet she had no idea who he really was. He was simply her armsman.

He’s Yasma’s friend. She trusts him.

Britta walked through into the antechamber. Karel passed her and opened the far door. The white marble corridors of the palace loomed on the other side.

Her gaze fastened on the armsman as he stood to attention, on the Osgaardan crest stamped into the gleaming breastplate. He looked dangerous: the hard muscles beneath his skin, the sword belted at his hip, the dark eyes.

What was he thinking as he watched her?