The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER TWELVE





THEY PUSHED EAST while smoke rose in the sky behind them. Harkeld rode a packhorse, a sturdy roan Cora had caught. Midway through the afternoon shapeshifters brought one of the packhorses, carrying food. They ate riding, chewing on nuts and strips of dried meat.

Several hours later they emerged from the cool shade of the forest into a grassy clearing beside a creek. Ebril was there, whistling between his teeth as he laid a ring of stones for a fire. Behind him, several horses grazed. Harkeld recognized the bay he’d ridden that morning.

Dareus dismounted stiffly, wearily. “Our pursuit?”

“South,” Ebril said. “The fires confused them. They haven’t found your trail yet.”

Dareus grunted. He looked across the clearing. Shadows were lengthening along the ground. “The other horses?”

Ebril shook his head. “Two dead, one injured. Lame. We had to leave it.”

They tended the horses as the sun sank behind a veil of smoke. Cora built a fire from fallen branches and lit it with a snap of her fingers. There were no tents; the packhorse carrying them had died at the river crossing.

Everything was wet—boots, saddles, clothing, blankets. Harkeld dried his sword with a handful of yellowing grass. He looked at his belongings. They made a pitiful collection, spread out to dry.

Two days ago he’d been a prince, eating the finest food, sleeping on silken sheets. Today he was a fugitive, bare-footed and bare-chested, clad in damp trews, with nothing more than a wet blanket to sleep in tonight. How did I fall so far, so fast?

“We need to cut your hair, sire,” Justen said. “The archers knew who to aim for.”

Harkeld touched the tangled strands that hung down his back. His hair was the last thing tying him to his birthright, the last sign he was of royal blood.

He couldn’t summon the energy to object, just nodded. “You have a razor?”

Justen shook his head. “Back on the ship. I’ve been getting shaved at the public baths. But Ebril or Petrus will have one.”

“The witches won’t have razors,” Harkeld said. “We’ll have to use your dagger.”

“Why won’t they have razors?”

“Because they grow feathers, not hair. They have to pluck themselves.”

Justen stared at him for a moment, and then gave a shout of laughter. “By the All-Mother, you don’t believe that, do you?”

Harkeld flushed. “It’s true.”

“Then how do you explain Gerit’s beard? Or Dareus’s?” Justen asked, grinning widely.

“Magic. They’ve made themselves look human.”

“Ach, you don’t truly believe that, do you, sire?” Justen’s grin turned down at the corners. “That they grow feathers, not hair?”

“Of course. Everyone knows it’s true.”

Justen’s grin vanished entirely. “What else does everyone know?”

“That witches mate with animals. That their women give birth to litters of kittens.”

“Kittens?”

“And other things. Some witches have goats’ eyes and walk on cloven hooves, others have the heads of dogs or asses, others—”

Justen snorted. “I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life, sire.”

Harkeld stiffened. “It’s true.”

“We had a mage born in my village. He didn’t have an ass’s head or cloven hooves. He didn’t grow feathers or fur. He was just like anyone else.”

“He can’t have been a witch then.”

Justen grinned. “He’s one, all right. When he’s home, he sometimes turns into a sea eagle and goes out ahead of the fleet to find where the fish are running.” His arms lifted, mimicking a bird’s wings. “Must be marvelous to be able to fly.”

Fly? With feathers sprouting from his skin? The thought made Harkeld’s scalp prickle.

Justen lowered his arms. “Fredrik didn’t even know he was a mage until he was tested.”

“Tested?”

“All children in the Allied Kingdoms are tested, to see if they have magic. Mages come to Groot every few years.” He shrugged. “They don’t find many. Groot doesn’t breed a lot of mages.”

Harkeld flexed his hand, looking at the way skin moved over muscle and bone. An ordinary hand—and yet the blood that flowed beneath his skin was tainted. Would the test show I am a witch?

He clenched his hand into a fist. No. The blood was too diluted. He was no witch. He refused to be a witch. “What happens to them? The children?”

“They go to Rosny when they’re old enough. To learn to use their magic.”

They should be culled. Like deformed calves are culled from a herd.

“Fredrik has to shave, like you and me. He grows whiskers, not feathers.” Justen indicated the witches with his hand: Cora stirring the stewpot, Ebril and Petrus spreading bedrolls and blankets to dry beside the fire, Dareus checking horses’ legs. “That’s the truth, sire. Not asses’ heads and cloven hooves. The truth is what you see with your own eyes, not what someone tells you.”

Harkeld looked coldly at his armsman. “How dare you speak to me—”

But Justen didn’t hear the reprimand; he was striding towards the fire. “Petrus, Ebril, do either of you have a razor?”

Both witches looked up.

“I need to cut the prince’s hair. Makes him a target.”

Ebril nodded. “Use mine.”

Harkeld maintained a reproving silence while Justen cut his hair. The armsman didn’t appear to notice. “There,” he said cheerfully when it was done. “Now you look like the rest of us.”

A commoner. Harkeld touched his hair. The strands were no longer than his thumb.





THEY ATE AROUND the fire. The girl, Innis, came out of the darkness and sat wrapped in a blanket. He knew she was naked beneath it, but the knowledge wasn’t titillating. He half-expected to see her guzzle the food from her bowl like an animal, but she ate with a spoon, as neatly as any court lady.

Harkeld looked down at his stew. Would the witches bother to cook if he and Justen weren’t with them? Or would they eat the raw flesh of slaughtered beasts, as the tales said they did, and rotting carrion and dead babies?

The truth is what you see with your own eyes.

Not always. Sometimes what you saw was what people wanted you to see.

Beside him, Justen scraped his wooden bowl clean with a spoon. “By the All-Mother, I needed that,” he said, stifling a belch.

Gerit grunted his agreement.

Harkeld finished his stew. He put down the bowl and closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the arrows, the churning water, the screaming horses, and silently thanked the All-Mother that Britta hadn’t been with them. If she had, she’d most likely be dead.

Emotion tightened his throat. He opened his eyes and looked up at the starless sky. Be safe, Britta. Be safe, Rutgar. Be safe, Lukas. May the All-Mother watch over and protect you.

An owl hooted softly in the forest. Or perhaps it was a witch.

Harkeld cleared his throat and stood. “I’m going to bed,” he told Justen, ignoring the witches.

The bedrolls were still damp. The blanketswere too.

After a few minutes, Justen joined him. He laid his sword between them, the blade bared. “Let’s hope it doesn’t rain tonight.”

Harkeld grunted. He glanced towards the fire. The girl, Innis, was gone. As he watched, Petrus emerged from the darkness and sat.

He rolled on his side, putting his back to the fire, to the witches.