The Blood Curse (41 page)

Jaumé gazed around, his mouth dropping open. “It’s a farmhouse.” A farmhouse inside a fortress.

“The sort of farmhouse you have if you live near hillmen,” Bennick said, dismounting.

Valor barred the door again, and they set to work tending the horses. Hetchel explored the house. He came back, grinning, holding up a haunch of smoked ham. “Dinner.”

Hetchel built a fire in the middle of the yard, and cut the ham into thick slices and fried it in lard he’d found in the farm pantry. He’d found a heavy iron skillet, too. The ham spat and crackled as it cooked. Jaumé’s mouth watered. Bennick heated up the last of the broth for the soldier, and brewed an infusion of bone-knit. “What about willowbark?” Jaumé asked.

Bennick shrugged. “If you can find some, he can have it.”

Jaumé ran to the packsaddles and hunted for the leather pouch of dried herbs. He brought it back to Bennick. “Maybe in here?”

Bennick went through the pouch. “That’s willowbark.”

Jaumé examined the stiff little curls of dried bark. “Will it stop him hurting?”

“A little.”

CHAPTER NINETY

I
NNIS SWAPPED WITH
Justen, dressed, and went to help with the horses, but Petrus said, “We’re good. Go sit by the fire and get warm.” And Prince Harkeld heaved a packsaddle off a horse and nodded agreement.

Innis helped Adel bring in firewood, then lugged the bedrolls and blankets up the wooden ladder to the loft. The straw smelled of sunshine and autumn, safe things that had nothing to do with blood curses and death.

Below, Rand and Serril were preparing the meal, talking in low voices. Innis watched them while she laid out the bedrolls. What were they saying? Why did they look so worried?

She climbed down the ladder and crossed to the fire. Adel crouched there, digging at his palm with the tip of his knife.

“Thorn? Let me do that.”

She sat cross-legged and took Adel’s hand. A big hand, long-fingered, bony. “Relax. It won’t hurt.” But Adel didn’t relax. She felt his tension, radiating through his fingers.

Innis sent her healing magic into his hand and blocked the nerves. A dig with the knife, a squeeze between fingers and thumb, and the thorn slid out. “See? No pain.”

“Thanks.” But Adel’s tension hadn’t eased at all.

Innis studied his face. He looked hollow-cheeked, almost gaunt. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Adel pulled his hand free.

Innis recaptured it. “Let me just seal it. What with the curse and all.”

Adel shivered, and didn’t protest.

Innis healed the tiny wound. It took half a dozen seconds. She didn’t release his hand; she let her magic expand into Adel, let herself detect his emotions. Fear rushed at her. It was like a slap on the face. She almost jerked backwards, almost dropped his hand. Adel’s fear was so intense that her ribcage constricted and her own heart beat faster.

Innis swallowed and tried to relax, tried to slow her heartbeat. It was impossible with Adel’s fear beating at her. “Adel, we’re safe here.”

Adel shook his head.

She tried to soothe him with her healing magic.
Calm. Relax
. Her awareness of Adel grew. She sensed the jittery panic underlying the fear. And the shame underlying that. The shame was almost as intense as his fear, deep and miserable, curdling inside him.

“We’re all afraid, Adel.”

His mouth twisted. He shook his head.

“Of course we are! Everyone is. Even Serril and Rand.”

Adel shook his head again. His eyes fastened on something past her shoulder.

Innis followed his gaze. Serril. The shapeshifter crossed to Petrus and Prince Harkeld and said something, a pouch of supplies dangling from one hand. Petrus and the prince were tall and broad-shouldered, but Serril was taller, broader.

“Serril might be as big as a bear, but he’s still afraid.”

“He’s not afraid of dying. He’s just afraid we’ll fail.” Adel pulled his hand from hers. “When we get back to Rosny, I’m not going to take my oath.”

She stared at him, shocked. “Adel...”

“I should never have trained to be a Sentinel. I’m not brave enough.” Tears stood out in Adel’s eyes. “Bode asked me to kill him and I couldn’t. Serril had to do it for me.”

“I couldn’t have done it either.”

“Yes, you could have. You’ve changed. You used to be like me, but you’re different now. You’re like them.” A jerk of his head indicated Petrus and the prince, Serril.

Innis was silent for a moment. Adel was right. At the Academy she had been shy, diffident. She remembered Petrus poking her in the back once, pushing her forward when a tutor had asked for a volunteer.
Don’t be so timid. You know you can do this better than any of us.
“Maybe I have changed a bit, but the thing is, Adel... I couldn’t have killed Bode that night either.”

“I’m not taking my oath,” Adel said again.

Innis studied his face, saw his shame. “Why did you want to become a Sentinel?”

Adel shook his head, didn’t answer. He stared down at his hands, clenched in his lap, bony and white-knuckled.

“I made a mistake in Ankeny, Adel. A
really
big mistake. I broke a Primary Law without permission. For no good reason.”

Adel glanced at her.

“When I told Cora, she said that everyone makes mistakes, and that our mistakes make us better Sentinels.”
If they don’t kill us
. “I know she was right, but I still feel like my mistakes are failures. When I make a mistake, I feel like I’ve let everyone down. Especially my parents. Even though they’re dead.”

She had Adel’s full attention now.

“And then, Cora asked me why I wanted to be a Sentinel. Was it for me? Or was it because of my parents? And she said it was important that I chose to be a Sentinel for
me
. That otherwise, I shouldn’t be one.” She held Adel’s gaze. “Why did you train to be a Sentinel? For yourself, or for someone else?”

Adel looked away. His face twisted, as if he was trying not to cry.

“If you wanted to be a Sentinel for yourself, then there’s no shame in not taking the oath. None at all. And if you’re doing it for someone else, then you shouldn’t be a Sentinel.” Innis touched his tightly clasped hands. “Adel? Why did you train?”

“My village has never had a Sentinel before. They were so proud—” His face twisted even more.

“If you did it for them, then you shouldn’t be a Sentinel. You have to do it for yourself.”

A tear trickled down Adel’s cheek, catching the firelight. He scrubbed it away with the back of one hand.

“Adel, there’s no shame in not taking the oath.”

“Isn’t there?” he said bitterly.

“No. No one will think any less of you. I won’t. Petrus and Justen certainly won’t. No one at the Academy will. Or any of the Sentinels. And if the people in your village
do
, then tell them to rut off.”

Adel uttered a choked laugh. “You don’t know them.”

“Then don’t go back there. You have to do what’s best for
you
, Adel. Not them.”

Adel looked away from her, at the fire. “They’re not bad people. They’d never say anything. They’d just...”

“Adel, there’s
no
shame in not taking the oath.”

Adel knuckled his eyes, wiped his face. He gave her a lopsided smile and pushed to his feet. “Thanks, Innis.”

She watched him go. Adel had always been friendly to her at the Academy. She liked him. He was quiet and self-effacing, but also kind-hearted. Not as brave as Petrus, perhaps, but no coward either.

“Well done.”

She looked across the fire and found Rand watching her.

“You think... I said the right thing?”

Rand nodded.

“I don’t know if he believed me.”

Rand thrust another thorn branch into the fire. “Serril and I’ll have a talk with him, once this is all over.”

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

W
ITH THE PRINCESS’S
help, Karel managed to sit up. He gritted his teeth and swallowed a groan. “How do you feel?” she asked. The fire was half a dozen yards distant, but firelight caught her face and showed him the anxious crease between her eyebrows.

“Fine,” he lied.

“Fever?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

The princess touched his cheek lightly and seemed satisfied with the temperature of his skin. “What about your forehead?”

“Feels tight. Doesn’t hurt too much.” Which was actually the truth.

“Your arm?”

“It aches. Like someone punched me.” More than once, and in more than one place. He hoped it wasn’t broken.

“What about your leg?”

“The same.” The same, but worse. A deep, raw ache that encompassed his whole thigh, including the bone. When he’d tried to walk, it had felt as if someone was cutting his leg in half with a blunt saw. The savage pain had taken hours to fade.

“Your ribs?”

“They hurt a bit,” he admitted. Breathing was agony, moving was agony.

Her frown deepened. She touched his cheek again, then his brow. “I’ll ask them to move you inside, tonight. There must be beds.”

Move? Karel swallowed another groan. “I’d rather stay here.”

The princess shook her head. “You’ll be warmer inside—”

“Not much warmer. Not if we put the flap down. I’ve got blankets. I’ll be fine here.”

“But—”

“The less I move, the sooner my ribs will heal. And my leg.”

The princess stopped arguing. “All right, we’ll stay here.”

“
You
sleep inside—”

“No.”

“Princess... I mean, Britta, if you sleep here with me, they’ll think we’re, um...” He fumbled for words that wouldn’t offend her. “They’ll think I’m more than just your armsman.”

Her eyebrows twitched up. She looked almost amused. “Who cares what they think?” She turned her head. “Ah, good.”

The assassin with the red-blond hair, Bennick, and the young lad, Jaumé, were headed their way.

“Broth,” Bennick said, taking a billy from the boy and putting it on the floor of the wagon. “And fried ham.” He shoved two plates across the floor towards them.

“What about willowbark tea?” the princess said.

“The deal was that I save your lapdog’s life, not pamper him. What do I care if he hurts? He killed two of my Brothers.”

“Killed two of your brothers?” The princess snorted, a contemptuous sound. “What do you care if he killed ten of them? We come, we go. Isn’t that what you said?”

Karel stiffened. Was she trying to get herself killed?

But Bennick didn’t fly into a rage. He grinned. “That’s what I said.” He plonked a second billy down beside the first, and an empty mug. “Willowbark tea. For your lapdog.” He turned and went back to the fire, whistling, Jaumé trotting at his heels.

Karel slowly released the breath he’d been holding. “All-Mother.”

“What?”

“I can’t believe you said that to him.” The humor of it struck him. He began chuckling.

“What’s so funny?”

“You, talking back to a Fithian,” Karel said, wheezing with laughter and pain. “You never talked back to your father, or Jaegar, but you’ll talk back to an
assassin
.”

She grimaced. “Father and Jaegar didn’t need me alive. The Fithians do.”

Karel sobered. “You’ve changed.”

“Yes,” the princess said seriously. “I think I have.”

With the ragged hair and too-large man’s clothing, she should look like a waif. She didn’t. “You look strong. Fierce.”

“I do?” Pleasure lit her face. “Thank you. Now, which would you like first? The broth or the ham?”

“The willowbark tea.”

Britta looked at him sharply.

Yes, it hurts. A lot
.

He watched her face while she poured tea into the mug. Tea for her lapdog. Britta had heard the insult to
him
, but he didn’t think she’d heard the insult to herself, the insinuation Bennick had made. A lady’s lapdog. A lady’s lover.

If he was strong enough, he’d climb down from the wagon and shove Bennick’s head in the fire. As it was, it was all he could do to hold the mug when Britta gave it to him.