The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX





THE ASSASSIN HAD been hiding in a cave, a dark hole a few yards from where his body lay. Inside were blankets, food and water, and bandages caked with dried blood.

“He was injured,” Gerit said. “Left behind—or chose to stay behind.” He backed out of the cave. “Decided he wanted to take the prince with him when he died.”

And almost succeeded. Innis looked down at the blackened corpse. It had been reduced mostly to ash, although one charred hand reached out, claw-like, as if in supplication.

“Injured? How?” Tomas asked, not looking at Prince Harkeld.

“His arm,” Innis said, remembering what she’d seen as she’d scrambled over the dead horse: a man crouching, reaching awkwardly for a throwing star. “That’s why he missed.”

Gerit grunted. “Likely,” he said. “Fithians don’t usually miss.” He dropped down on one knee and stirred the ashes with the tip of his dagger.

Innis shuddered and looked up the gorge. Movement caught her eye: a large wolf with a silvery ruff, leaping lightly from boulder to boulder towards them. Petrus.

“How did he know which was Harkeld?” Prince Tomas asked.

“He was in the middle. The rest of you were in uniform. Easy.” Gerit didn’t bother to look up as he spoke.

Tomas bridled. “Justen was also—”

“Prince Harkeld is dark,” Dareus said. “They’d have that much of a description.”

The wolf jumped the last few boulders, padded over to Dareus, and sat on its haunches. “Any more of them?” Dareus asked.

The wolf shook its head.

“Stay in that form,” Dareus ordered. “There could be others.”

“Others?” Tomas said. “How can there be?” He turned to Gerit. “You said there were ten of them—”

“Or thereabouts.” Gerit looked up at him. “The scent was old. Hard to tell.”

“We made a mistake, thinking there were only seven survivors.” Dareus rubbed his face. “And thinking they would stay together. This time, we were lucky. Next time, we may not be.”

Gerit flipped the throwing star free of the ashes. It skittered several feet, coming to rest against a boulder with a dull clang. The steel was stained black with soot, the blades sharp, deadly.





PETRUS LOPED AHEAD of them for the rest of the afternoon, while Ebril flew above. Prince Harkeld was silent. He didn’t speak while they rode or while they prepared for the night: tethering the horses a mile up the canyon, hauling blankets and water up to the cave Gerit had found, stacking the rest of their supplies where the corpses wouldn’t trample them.

He sat alongside her now, chewing his food, sunk so deeply in his thoughts that she doubted he knew where he was. It was as if he’d erected a barrier around himself. The way he sat, the set of his shoulders, the set of his face, said as loudly as words could: Leave me alone.

No one spoke much. Tomas was almost as silent as his friend.

Friend? Innis doubted the word could be applied to the two princes now. Tomas’s eyes held fear when he looked at Prince Harkeld.

The soldiers, too, eyed the prince warily. As if he’s one of us.

Wasn’t he?

Innis glanced at Prince Harkeld again. She’d never seen anyone look so bleak, so grim.

She curled her fingers into her palm, clenching them, and looked at Dareus. Do something. Speak to him. But Dareus didn’t notice. He ate, talking with Cora as if nothing untoward had happened.

Innis looked down at her bowl. Beans and flakes of dried fish floated in a greasy soup. If she’d been closer to the prince, at his side as she was meant to be, he wouldn’t have had to use his magic.

She stirred with her spoon, watching as the beans floated, bumping against one another. I am not a witch! the prince had shouted. It hadn’t been anger that had made his voice so loud; it had been fear.





SOMEONE HELD HIM. Harkeld felt the soft warmth of a woman’s body along his back, felt her arms encircling him.

He laid his hands over hers. His mind replayed the moment in the gorge: the assassin flaring alight, flames bursting from his hair, from his open, screaming mouth. No. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. Did she feel how he shook? Did she feel the tremors?

“It’s all right,” she whispered.

“No.” It will never be all right again.

She sighed softly against his back. Her arms tightened around him. “Would it be so terrible to be a witch?”

Terrible?

He remembered how it had felt. Bones, blood, everything in his body on fire, as if he were burning alive.

Panic rose in him, squeezing in his chest, choking his throat. Harkeld wrenched free of her embrace. “I won’t be a witch! I won’t be a monster!”

Her skin was luminously pale, her eyes as dark as night. “We’re not monsters.”

“You are!” he yelled, shouting the words, screaming them at her. “I won’t be one of you! I won’t!”

She retreated, withdrawing from him, vanishing into the darkness.

Harkeld stayed where he was, half-sitting, panting, shaking, almost sobbing. It’s too late, a voice inside him said. You’re already one of them. You are a monster.