Free The Sentinel Mage by Emily Gee Page B

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.
     
     
    T HEY 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.

 
     

    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
     
    A T MIDNIGHT, K AREL handed Princess Brigitta’s safety into the care of her second armsman, Torven, and went off duty. The corridors of the palace were still brightly lit. He descended the stairs to the armsmen’s barracks, slung his sword belt over a peg in the antechamber, and joined the line of men waiting for food in the mess hall. The air was thick with the smell of mutton and leeks.
    Karel took his plate and sat down at one of the long tables. He began to eat, paying no attention to the men sitting around him. The low ceiling echoed with a hundred different conversations.
    “Island girls are such whores. They squeal loudly when you take them, but really they want to be rutted.”
    Karel chewed stolidly, letting the words pass over his head. They were aimed at him, bait for him to rise to if he was foolish enough.
    They’ll try to goad you, to break you. His uncle’s words came back to him. You must resist. You must prove that we are loyal and