The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT





FIVE HORSES HAD torn free of their tethers overnight; two had broken legs. The rest stood where they’d been picketed, a mile from the cave, sweating, trembling.

By the time the packhorses were loaded, the sun had risen above the canyon rim. They set off in a slow cavalcade, Innis in her place at Prince Harkeld’s side. Ebril rode the thermals above them and Petrus loped a furlong ahead.

At noon, they halted for lunch. Innis loosened her horse’s girth and turned to lead the weary beast down to the river. Dareus caught her eye. She walked slowly, lagging behind Prince Harkeld.

“How is he?” Dareus asked as he caught up with her.

“He hasn’t spoken a word.” Innis glanced at the prince, and away. “Yesterday was my fault. I should have been closer to him.”

“You were as close as you could be, under the circumstances.”

“But—”

“It’s as well that we know what he’s capable of. That he knows.”

Innis walked for a moment in silence. She remembered the dream she’d had last night, the way the prince had trembled as she held him. She’d felt his fear, quite literally. He’s lost the person he thought he was. He’s terrified of what he’s become.

She lifted her gaze to Prince Harkeld. She hadn’t been imagining his emotions in the dream; she’d felt them with her magic, just as she did when she healed. “Dareus? Have you ever heard of mages sharing dreams?”

His eyebrows rose sharply. “Sharing dreams?”

Innis nodded.

“What sort of dreams?”

“Dreams when you’re with someone. When you talk with them.”

“Intimate dreams?”

“Sometimes.” She felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “I’ve never had dreams like this before. They feel real.”

Dareus nodded. “I’ve heard of it happening between healers. It’s rare.”

“Healers?” Her gaze jerked, startled, to Prince Harkeld.

They reached the edge of the riverbed and the clutter of dry boulders. Dareus halted. “When you heal, what happens?”

Innis looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Do you read people’s thoughts when you heal them?”

“Of course not!”

“But...you feel more than just tissue and bone?”

“Yes.”

“What do you feel?” he asked.

“Emotions,” she said. But it was more than just that. Innis frowned, struggling to find the words to express it. She stared at Prince Harkeld, remembering the strong sense of honor she’d felt when she’d healed him, the stubbornness, the courage—and the loss, the despair, the rage. “It’s like knowing someone really well. Knowing who they are as a person.”

“For me it’s just tissues and bones.”

Innis turned her head and looked at him.

“Strong healers, healers like you who feel, sometimes have dreams like you describe.”

“With their patients?”

“With each other.” Dareus frowned. “It is Petrus you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s the prince.”

Dareus’s eyebrows rose. “Prince Harkeld?”

She nodded.

“How unusual.” He studied the prince, now halted in the middle of the riverbed. “I’ve only ever heard of it happening between healers who share a strong bond.”

“A strong bond?”

“They’re usually lovers.”

Innis felt herself flush. She remembered the prince’s hands sliding over her skin, remembered the taste of his mouth as he kissed her. “I have no bond with him. He hates us.”

“Hate us, he might. But he’s one of us. He’s a fire mage—and a healer, if he’s sharing dreams with you.” Dareus glanced sideways at her. “Did you dream last night?”

She nodded.

“What did it tell you?”

Innis looked at Prince Harkeld, at his dark close-cropped hair, at his stubbled face, his grim profile. “He’s terrified.”





MID-AFTERNOON THE CANYON swung north. Gerit was waiting for them. Behind him, an outcrop of sandstone sat squarely in the middle of the canyon, broad and squat. Petrus, loping ahead of them in wolf form, reached Gerit first. He sat down on the sand, stretched his jaws wide in a yawn, and began to scratch vigorously beneath his chin. Innis repressed the urge to scratch her own chin. Justen’s whiskers were itchy, uncomfortable.

“It looks like a giant cowpat,” one of the soldiers said, as they reined in.

Gerit ignored the comment. “This is the best defensive position I can find,” he told Dareus.

“It’s too low,” Tomas protested.

“There’s nothing higher until we reach the end of the canyon.”

Petrus stopped scratching. He shifted from wolf to man and studied the outcrop, unselfconscious in his nudity. “If we ring it with fire—”

“We don’t have enough wood,” Tomas said.

“Corpses, then. We pile them up and set them alight. That way, anything that gets past the oliphants burns.”

There was a moment of silence. Tomas looked at Dareus. “Could it work?”

Dareus nodded. “Yes.”





THEY TOILED FOR the better part of an hour, dragging corpses from their tombs, hauling them to the outcrop, stacking them, while Ebril circled overhead, keeping watch. “That should be enough,” Prince Tomas said, panting.

Petrus stood back, wiping sweat from his face. His hands smelled of tombs, of dust and crumbling bones and skin so old it had turned to brittle leather. The scent seemed to waft from his clothes, to trickle down from his hair.

“Let’s rest. We’ve a few hours before nightfall,” Dareus said. “Gerit, Petrus, stay behind. I need to speak with you.” He caught Justen’s eye, and then lifted his arm to beckon Ebril down.

Petrus lowered himself to sit on the sand. He rubbed his face and yawned as the soldiers and the princes and Justen clambered up onto the outcrop. Ebril glided down to land.

Half a minute later, Innis returned. She crouched. “I can’t stay long. He thinks I’m peeing.”

“Change with Petrus,” Dareus said.

She began to strip off Justen’s clothes.

“Tonight we’ll start with three oliphants, thin their numbers, then drop back to two.”

Petrus listened as he undressed. He took the trews Innis tossed him—smelling of sweat and soot and corpses—and pulled them on.

“Innis, you’ll be shifted all night,” Dareus said. “Gerit and Ebril will do as much as they can.”

Petrus paused in the act of buttoning Justen’s shirt. “What about me?”

“You’ll be Justen all night.”

“But—”

“The outcrop will be brightly lit. No cover. You won’t be able to swap with anyone.”

Petrus pulled the shirt off again. “Then let Ebril be Justen. Or Gerit.”

“You’ve been a wolf most of the day,” Dareus said, a note of impatience in his voice. “Running. You need to rest.”

“I want to fight.”

“It’s not a sinecure,” Dareus said sharply. “If the corpses break through, you’ll have to keep the prince alive.”

“You think it could be that bad?” Ebril asked.

“They’ll be coming at us from all sides,” Dareus said. “If we can’t hold them off, then yes, it will be that bad.”

Silence followed these words. Petrus looked down at the shirt in his hand. Slowly, he began to put it on again.

Gerit surveyed the outcrop, the corpses piled high. “Do you have the strength to keep them burning all night?” he asked Dareus.

“We’ll have to.”

“Get the prince to help you. He’s a fire mage. A strong one, by the look of it.”

Innis looked up, a frown furrowing her brow.

“No,” Dareus said.

“But—”

“He hasn’t the faintest idea how to use his magic,” Dareus said.

Gerit scowled, and spat into the sand.





PETRUS SLEPT ALONGSIDE the prince, awakening as the afternoon slid towards evening.

They ate silently, quickly, and readied their weapons.

As the sky began to darken, Cora set the ring of corpses alight. The bodies burned, crackling and hissing, flames leaping high.

Petrus tested the edge of Justen’s Grooten sword with his thumb and watched as Innis unbuttoned her shirt and kicked off her boots. He understood how Prince Harkeld felt. I want to fight, too.

Innis shifted into an owl, settled her feathers with a brisk shake of her wings, and swept up into the air, leaving her clothes puddled on the ground. He followed her with his eyes: gliding over the soldiers’ heads, over the ring of leaping flames.

“Justen.”

He turned his head.

Dareus beckoned.

Petrus slid the sword back into its scabbard and walked across to him.

“Stay with Prince Harkeld,” Dareus said loudly. “Remember: your role is to protect him, not join in the battle.” He lowered his voice. “If the worst happens, shift into an oliphant and take him on your back. Get out of here.”

Petrus nodded.

Beyond the burning pyres, oliphants paced the sand. His eyes followed them.

“If you have to deal with the assassins on your own—”

“It won’t come to that, sir.”

An oliphant bellowed. The sound echoed, reverberating off the cliffs.

Dareus drew in a deep breath. “Here come the corpses.”