The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER SEVEN





INNIS WOKE TO the gray light of predawn and the sound of birdsong. She washed her face in the creek and joined Cora and Gerit in the clearing beside the fire for the dawn exercises. Nervousness eddied in her belly. The precise flow of movements, the slow rhythm of stretches and lunges and blocks, the control she had over her body—flex of muscle, quietness of breathing—was calming. Dareus and Petrus joined them.

Innis went through the sequence three times before stopping. A feeling of quiet confidence had replaced the nervousness. I can do this. She washed her face in the creek again and turned back to the campsite.

Prince Harkeld stood beside his tent, watching Dareus and Petrus complete the exercises. His antipathy was clear to see. He looked as if he’d smelled something unpleasant; his lips flattened against his teeth, his nostrils slightly flared.

The prince turned his head and caught her looking at him. She read his opinion of her clearly in his eyes.

Innis flushed. She ducked her head and walked towards the fire and breakfast.





AFTER THE CAMPSITE was dismantled and the packhorses loaded, they split into two groups. Gerit jerked his thumb at the sky. “Innis, get up there with Ebril. Keep watch. Anyone follows us, I want to know.”

Innis’s heart kicked in her chest and sped up. This was it, the first step towards breaking a Primary Law. She went through the preparations mechanically: removing her boots, unbuttoning the top few buttons of her shirt. She focused on the form she wanted to take, took a deep breath, and changed. Magic surged through her, stinging beneath her skin. For a dizzying moment she was neither human nor bird, then everything became solid again. Her lungs expanded as she inhaled, her heart beat in her chest, blood flowed through her veins.

She stayed in the nest of her clothes for a few seconds, while the disorientation of viewing the world through different eyes eased, then shrugged free of the shirt. Her nervousness vanished as she spread her wings. Exhilaration caught her as she climbed swiftly upward. There was nothing but pleasure in the strong flex of her wings, in the speed of her ascent, in the utter freedom of flight.

Smoke from yesterday’s fires stained the sky. To the north, the forest stretched for miles before trailing into a patchwork of fields and villages. To the east was more forest, and mountains rising jaggedly in the distance. South, past a ragged fringe of forest and farmland, was the sea. Dimly, through the haze, she saw the curve of the horizon.

Ebril swooped towards her with a shrill cry of welcome. Like her, he’d chosen to be a hawk. His breast and the underside of his wings were a russet-brown. His eyes were ringed with yellow above the vicious curve of his beak. The shimmer of magic surrounded him, like sunlight sparkling on water.

Innis circled high above the campsite. She saw Prince Harkeld glance upward, saw the muscles contract alongside his mouth.

Gerit lifted his hand, a silent command. Go. Innis uttered a cry of farewell to Ebril. She dipped a wing, gliding east until she was out of sight of the campsite, then swung west, towards the smoke and King Esger’s palace, the town and the harbor. From this height, the forest was crisscrossed by strips of burned trees. The fires had clearly been laid by mages; there was nothing natural about those narrow, blackened strips, they were too straight, too discrete.

It didn’t take her long to find Dareus and Petrus. She swooped down, landing on a branch.

“Take us as close to the port as you can,” Dareus said. “And keep close watch. They’ll be hunting us.”





IT WAS LATE morning by the time they reached the edge of the forest. Dareus dismounted. He held out his arm.

Innis landed lightly, taking care not to grip too strongly with her talons.

“Is there anyone nearby?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Change back.”

Petrus dismounted. He unstrapped a blanket from behind his saddle. Innis glided across to him.

She landed and shifted. There was a moment of disorientation and then she settled fully into herself: a human, not a bird.

Petrus handed her the blanket. Innis wrapped it around herself. The clarity of vision she’d had as a hawk was gone. Through the smoky haze, the port and the lower portions of the town were only dimly visible. She could no longer see the ships riding at anchor in the harbor.

“I’ve given some thought to the shape you’ll shift into,” Dareus said. “There are certain difficulties. You can’t be from Osgaard or any of the Seven Kingdoms. Your accent marks you as not from here.”

“Where, then?”

“Across the ocean,” Dareus said. “The Allied Kingdoms.”

“The prince isn’t a fool,” Petrus protested. “Everyone knows mages come from Rosny—”

“She’ll not be from Rosny,” Dareus said. “She’ll be from the Groot Isles. She’ll be Justen.”

“Justen?” Petrus’s surprise echoed her own.

“You both trained with him. You know how he speaks, how he acts. There’s less chance that one of you will make a mistake.” Dareus rubbed the furrows in his brow. “It’s the best I can think of.”

Petrus glanced at her. “Can you do it?”

“Ach,” she said, the way Justen always did. “By the All-Mother, I think I can.”

Petrus grunted, the sound was almost a laugh. “Ebril knows Justen,” he said. “But I don’t think Gerit does.”

“He can learn from watching you.”

“We’ll need an amulet,” Innis said. Justen always touched his when he mentioned the All-Mother. “And one of those daggers with a decorated hilt.”

“We’ll need a lot of things,” Dareus said. “But first, let’s make sure you can both do the shift. I want an image you can both focus on. Petrus, you brought the parchment?”

Petrus had. He spread a sheet on the ground and anchored it with stones. “You draw,” he said, handing Innis the stick of charcoal. “You’re better than me.”

Innis sat cross-legged and stared at the parchment, turning the charcoal over in her fingers, trying to see Justen’s face on it. She began to sketch.

“Snub nose,” Petrus said over her shoulder. “And his hair’s down past his ears.”

When she’d finished, Justen’s face looked back at her from the parchment—square and plain, with a broad brow and wide mouth. A dependable face. An honest, good-humored face.

“Good,” Dareus said. “Let’s practice. Innis, you go first.”

She stood, drawing the blanket tightly around herself, suddenly nervous. She was about to break one of the Primary Laws. “How tall is he?”

“Same as me,” Petrus said.

“Use Petrus’s body,” Dareus said. “Petrus.” It was an order.

Petrus began to strip. He kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his shirt.

Innis studied his bare chest as he unbuckled his belt. She’d seen Petrus naked dozens of times, hundreds, but this was the first time she’d ever looked at him properly: the broad shoulders, the muscled abdomen.

He wasn’t as hairy as some of the other mages.

Petrus stepped out of his trews. He peeled off his underbreeches.

Innis looked away. Shapeshifters were used to each other’s nudity, but it was bad manners to stare.

“Copy Petrus,” Dareus said. “But give Justen darker body hair.”

Innis nodded. She brought her gaze back to Petrus. He was heavily muscled, his skin tanned golden and lightly dusted with white-blond hair. She studied his body—the strong throat, the broad ribcage, the dangling genitals.

Innis flushed slightly. She looked down at his feet, at the shape of his toes.

“Turn around,” Dareus said.

Petrus did. Innis stared at the angles of his shoulder blades and line of his spine, his buttocks, his legs.

“Ready?” Dareus asked.

Innis nodded. “Yes.”

Petrus turned around again. She looked at him one last time, gauging his height, and then glanced down at the sketch: square face, broad brow, curling hair. “Eye color?”

No one answered. She looked up.

“Make them brown,” Dareus said.

Innis nodded. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, building the image of what she wanted to be—who she wanted to be—in her mind.

Magic rippled under her skin. She opened her eyes, uncertain. It was easier than a shift had ever been before, swifter, less close to pain. “Did it work? Have I changed?” Her voice was wrong, too deep, not her own.

Both men were staring at her. ‘‘Hair’s too dark,” Petrus said, after a moment.

Dareus shook his head. “Looks fine to me.” He gestured. “The blanket.”

Innis let the blanket fall to the ground.

Both men stared at her again. Innis looked down at herself. She had hair on her chest, a penis. She almost took a step backwards, away from the wrongness of her body. She held herself still with willpower. This is me.

Dareus circled her slowly, frowning as he scrutinized her. He was shorter than her now. It was disorienting to be looking down at him, not up. Innis blinked, fighting a surge of dizziness.

Dareus turned to Petrus. “You try.”

Petrus closed his eyes. His features blurred and rearranged themselves—nose, mouth, chin. His hair darkened, lengthening slightly.

Innis had watched mages shift before, but this time nausea twisted in her belly. She averted her gaze. When she looked back, Justen stood before her. A shimmer of magic lightly coated his skin and hair.

She stared at him. Is that what I look like?

Dareus walked around them both. “Perfect. You’re identical.”

Petrus touched his face, molding his jaw and cheekbones with his fingers. “That was easier than any shift I’ve ever done.”

Dareus nodded. “Good.”

Petrus lowered his hand. “Let me do it. Innis doesn’t have to—”

“Innis is our strongest shifter.”

“But—”

“The decision has been made.” The note of authority, of finality, in Dareus’s voice was unmistakable. “Innis will be the prince’s armsman for the bulk of the time.”

Innis bit her lip. She looked down at the ground and rubbed her big toe in the dirt. A toe that was too large, with a nail that wasn’t her own.

She glanced up. Petrus was watching her. “Don’t do that,” he said, gesturing to her mouth. “Justen wouldn’t do that.”

Innis stopped biting her lip. She raised her chin.

“Better,” Petrus said. He sighed and turned to Dareus. “What now?”

“Stay in that shape and head down to the town. We need clothes and weapons for Justen, and a Grooten amulet. And a horse.”

Petrus nodded. He reached for his discarded clothes and began to dress.

“And me?” Innis asked.

“You need to learn to be comfortable in that body. We’ll start with the dawn exercises.”

Innis nodded. She inhaled, centering her energy, and began to move through the first sequence. She’d done these exercises every morning for years—the movements were so familiar she could do them in her sleep—but this time the proportions of her body were different. She almost overbalanced as she stepped into a low lunge. She steadied herself with one hand—a broad hand with thick, strong fingers—and watched Dareus give Justen—Petrus—several gold coins.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Petrus said.

“Be careful.” Her voice was a baritone.

“I will.”





THE SUN HAD slid past noon by the time Petrus returned leading the horse he’d bought, a sturdy dun mare. Innis was part way through the third warrior sequence. He watched as she advanced, blocked, kicked high. She stopped when she saw him. Her face was Justen’s but the hand raised in greeting, the shy smile, were Innis’s.

“How’s it going?” Petrus asked, sliding from the saddle.

Innis glanced at Dareus.

“Very well,” Dareus said.

A comment rose to his tongue. Petrus bit it back, and then made himself say it: “Justen wouldn’t do that.”

Her broad brow wrinkled. “What?”

“Let someone else answer for him.”

“Oh.” She flushed at the criticism.

Petrus turned and unstrapped a bundle from the dun mare’s saddle. “Justen’s clothes. And I’ve got a dagger and a sword. Both Grooten.”

“Did you find an amulet?” Innis asked, taking the bundle.

“An amulet...and a keepsake from your sweetheart.”

Her thick eyebrows rose. “Sweetheart?”

Petrus shrugged. “Sweetheart. Wife. Whatever you decide.”

Innis crouched, opening the bundle, spreading the clothes on the cloak they were wrapped in: underbreeches, shirts, trews, a pair of boots. “Grooten,” she said, fingering the black and white embroidery along the hem of the cloak.

“The boots are too. See here?” Like the cloak, the boots were well-worn, the embroidery faded but still recognizably Grooten.

“Well done,” Dareus said. “And the weapons?”

Petrus unstrapped them. “Dagger,” he said, handing it to Innis. “And a sword.” The hilts of both sword and dagger were decorated with geometric Grooten designs.

Innis hefted the sword in her hand.

“It’s heavier than you’re used to,” Petrus said. “The same weight as mine.”

She nodded. “Where did you get all these?”

“Trader,” he said. “A Grooten ship was in port last month. Some of the sailors bartered their belongings.” For money to visit the local whores, the trader had said, but he didn’t tell Innis that. Instead, he fished in his pocket. “Here. Your amulet.” The disc was round and thin, a slice from a walrus tusk.

Dareus leaned close. “Excellent.”

Petrus nodded. It wasn’t a souvenir, shiny and new; the amulet had the patina of long wear, the ivory burnished to a creamy color.

Innis slipped the leather cord over her head. The amulet nestled just below the hollow of her collarbone. “What do you think?”

Petrus stared at her, unsettled. “That you look like Justen.”

Innis grinned.

Petrus looked away. He thrust his hand into his pocket again. “Here. Your sweetheart.”

The portrait was painted on a small piece of wood. The girl was flaxen-haired, pink-cheeked. The image was slightly worn, as if someone had touched the painted face often.

Innis took it. She turned it over, but there was nothing on the back. “Someone bartered this?”

Or was robbed. Petrus shrugged.

“Get dressed,” Dareus told her. “Sparring with swords first, and then wrestling.” He turned to Petrus. “Are you having any difficulty holding the shift?”

“No.”

“Balance and co-ordination?”

“The same as when I’m me.”

Dareus nodded. “Good. You may change back to yourself.”





THEY’D SPARRED TOGETHER often, but usually Petrus tempered his blows, not striking with his full weight. This time, when he did that, Innis pushed forward, forcing him to retreat.

Petrus gritted his teeth and began to defend himself more vigorously.

Innis didn’t pull back; she pressed her advantage, her lips pulled back from her teeth in a fierce grimace. She forced him to retreat another step.

“Stop thinking of her as Innis,” he heard Dareus say. “Fight as if she’s a man.”

But she’s not a man. Protectiveness surged inside him.

Her blade swiped at him, deflecting his blow, striking his upper arm.

It was no gentle tap. Petrus bit back a yelp of pain.

Innis lowered her sword, her expression instantly contrite. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

“You were holding back,” Dareus told him.

“Next time I won’t.” Petrus said, massaging his upper arm.

“Well done, Innis.” Dareus held out his hand for the Grooten sword. “Let’s try wrestling now.”

Petrus stripped off his shirt. The sword blade had left an angry red welt on his arm. Innis winced when she saw it. “I’m sorry,” she said again, reaching out to touch him. “Does it hurt?”

“Don’t,” he said roughly. “You’re behaving like a girl. Justen would laugh and tell me it served me right.”

Innis flushed. She lowered her hand.

Petrus balled up his shirt and tossed it aside. He kicked off his boots. “Wrestling. Best out of three.”

He won the first bout easily. “You hesitated,” he told Innis as he pinned her to the ground.

Dareus spoke behind them. “Don’t be afraid of hurting Petrus.”

Innis shrugged him off and pushed to her feet. “I’m not,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

They circled each other, crouching slightly, their weight on the balls of their feet. Petrus saw Innis inhale, saw her muscles tense, saw her hesitate.

He took advantage of the hesitation, rushing her. They grappled, arms locked around each other.

“You’re still holding back,” he told her.

Innis grunted. “So are you.” Her hip dipped as she threw him.

Petrus rolled and sprang to his feet. They circled again, panting. This time it was Innis who moved first, tackling low, her shoulder slamming into his ribs.

He let her weight propel them backwards and twisted, bringing her to the ground. They rolled. He almost had her pinned—

Her knee caught Petrus hard beneath his breastbone. The air left his lungs. He doubled over on the ground.

“Petrus!” Her hand gripped his shoulder. “Petrus, are you all right?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and dragged air into his lungs. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Innis was silent. After a moment the hand left his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he saw her crouched alongside him. Her expression was anxious.

Petrus sat up, biting back a groan. He felt his ribs gingerly and then climbed to his feet. “Last bout.”

Innis didn’t move. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I don’t break that easily.”

Still she hesitated.

“If you hold back, we’ll do it again,” Petrus told her. “And again. And again.”

He saw determination settle on her face. The square jaw firmed. “No holding back.”

Innis kept her word. The bout was hard and fast, rough.

“Much better,” Dareus said, as Petrus scrambled to his feet after being thrown.

They circled, panting heavily. Petrus wiped sweat from his brow. He and Innis were evenly matched. No, not evenly matched; they were exactly matched. They had the same training, knew the same moves—and they now had the same reach, the same strength, the same weight.

Petrus blew out a breath and started forward.

Innis met him halfway. For a moment they grappled, each trying to tip the other, then Petrus managed to hook his foot around her ankle.

They fell, twisting for dominance. His head hit the ground so hard that he saw stars for a moment. The hands grabbing him gentled. “Petrus?”

“Don’t hold back,” he panted, trying to catch Innis in a choke-hold.

Innis wrenched free of his grip. A strong arm hooked around his throat. The next moment, his face was being ground into the dirt and a crushing weight was on his back. “Do you yield?”

Petrus tried to shrug her off.

The arm tightened until he couldn’t breathe. “Yield,” he wheezed.

Innis laughed, an exultant sound, and released him.

Petrus pushed up to sit, grimacing, panting. He spat dirt from his mouth. “I hope you get the chance to do that to the prince.”

“The prince?” Innis glanced at Dareus. “I won’t, will I?”

Dareus shrugged. “Noblemen often wrestle with their armsmen.”

“He certainly won’t want to wrestle with any of us.” Petrus heaved to his feet, stifling a groan.

“Well done, Innis,” Dareus said. “That was excellent. Get dressed. We need to start back.”

Petrus wiped dirt and sweat from his face. He walked across to where his shirt and boots lay.

Dareus followed him. “You were still holding back,” he said in a low voice. “You could have won that bout.”

Petrus glanced up sharply. Innis hadn’t heard; she was pulling Justen’s shirt over her head.

“She needed the confidence,” he muttered, reaching for his boots.

“I’m aware of your feelings for her,” Dareus said. “But you must treat her as a man. I won’t have her fail because of you.”

Petrus straightened. Dareus was shorter than him, leaner, but he carried the weight of decades as a Sentinel mage on his shoulders—judgments passed, punishments meted out. His authority was palpable.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Dareus gave a curt nod. “See that you do.” He turned and spoke more loudly, so that Innis could hear. “From now on, you answer only to Justen.”