The Sentinel Mage (32 page)

Tomas shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

“How high is it?” Justen asked.

“More than a mile.”

The escarpment looked like the edge of the world, extending east and west as far as Harkeld could see. The sandstone was cream-colored at its base, shading up into pink and red as it reached towards the sky.

“Do we ride up?” Justen asked.

“Walk.” Tomas grinned. “Good exercise.”

T
HEY SPENT THE
rest of the afternoon in preparation. Tomas divided their escort in two—the twenty men who would continue into Masse, and those who’d return the way they had come—and gave orders to his second-in-command. Supplies were split, packhorses chosen for the climb up the cliff, weapons sharpened, firewood collected to take with them, waterskins filled.

Finally Tomas declared them ready. “Now all we have to do is climb the cursed thing.”

Harkeld grunted and turned away. It wasn’t the climb he dreaded; it was what awaited him in Masse. The trek across the desert plateau. The first anchor stone.

They dined early, before the sun had sunk from the sky. A hawk spiraled down, landing in front of one of the tents. Gerit.

The witch dressed and joined them at the campfire.

“What’s it like up top?” Tomas asked.

“Empty,” Gerit said, filling a bowl with stew.

“Anselm’s men—”

“Still heading inland.”

“What about water?” Tomas asked. “Did you see the river?”

“Wouldn’t call it a river.”

“But there was water?” Tomas persisted.

“A trickle,” Gerit said, shoveling food into his mouth. “Enough for us.”

“Good.” Tomas nodded. “We’ll get an early start tomorrow.”

“How early?” Justen asked.

“Two hours before dawn,” Tomas said. “Otherwise we won’t be at the top before dark.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I
N THE MORNING,
once she’d scrubbed the duke from her skin, Britta dressed. Yasma brought two goblets on a tray.

Britta drank the dung root juice, but put the second goblet aside. She took a deep breath. “Yasma, I must speak with you about something.”

“Yes?”

She glanced at the door into the salon. It was closed. Even so, she lowered her voice: “You know that Lundegaard is taking in refugees from Vaere?”

Yasma nodded.

“The boats are landing at the Hook, in southern Lundegaard. Near the goldfields.” Britta looked down at her tunic and picked at a loose thread, wound it around her fingertip. “Not all the refugees are genuine. So far three squadrons of our soldiers have slipped in. One hundred and fifty men. Another squadron is due to depart this week.” She glanced up at Yasma. “Once enough men are in place, they’ll take the goldfields. And once the goldfields are secure, my father has promise of a fleet of Sarkosian mercenaries. With our army and navy, and the mercenaries, Lundegaard doesn’t stand a chance.”

Yasma’s lips were half-parted, her expression aghast.

Britta took a deep breath. “I want to stop them. And the only way I can think of is to inform the ambassador from Lundegaard.”

“But—” Yasma broke off, swallowed. “Britta, your father will kill you!”

“If he finds out, yes.” She looked down at the thread wound around her fingertip. “I hope he won’t. That’s where I need your help.”

“How?”

Britta unwound the thread. She walked around the foot of the bed and opened the door to the study. The shutters were open this morning.
I must remember that when I leave.
“First, I must copy the plans and the maps. Will you keep watch for me?”

Yasma nodded. Her hands twisted in a nervous, wringing movement.

“Does anyone else ever come in here? Rickard’s bondservant?”

“He never comes past the dressing room.”

“Good.” Britta rubbed her brow. “I must contact the ambassador without being observed. My head’s too slow, Yasma. I can’t think of a way. If you can think of one, I should be very grateful.”

The girl nodded again. Her eyes were wide and frightened.

W
HEN THE FOURTH
bell rang, Britta began clearing away the parchment. She moved slowly, carefully, capping the ink flask, wiping the ink from the quill she’d used, gathering together the sheets of paper.

Her fingers weren’t as deft as they’d once been. If she fumbled, if she dropped something, spilled ink—

She paused, gathered calmness around her again, and continued placing the items back where she had found them. Then she picked up the pages she’d copied. She counted them: five.
Too slow.
But if she wrote any faster, the words had a way of turning into unreadable scrawls.

Britta took one last look around the study, satisfying herself that no sign of her presence remained, then backed out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Yasma looked up from her mending. Relief was bright in her eyes. “You’ve finished?”

“For today,” Britta said.

The next question was where to hide the pages she’d copied? Somewhere Yasma wouldn’t be implicated if they were found.
But she must be implicated. She’s my maid; how could I do this without her knowledge?

It was a sobering realization. It wasn’t merely her own life she risked with this. She’d turned Yasma into a traitor too.

The only two hiding places Britta could think of were among her clothes in the dressing room, or under the mattress of the big bed. Neither seemed particularly safe. She chose the bed, shoving the pages under the mattress. She liked the irony of it: the duke sleeping on top of documents that would destroy his planned invasion.

“Princess,” Yasma said, behind her. “I’ve thought of a way to pass the information to the ambassador.”

Britta rose and brushed the creases from her long tunic. “Yes?”

“You give it to his wife.”

“How?”

“I thought...a garden party. To celebrate your marriage. You can invite the highest ranking ladies of the court, and the ambassadors’ wives.”

Britta nodded.

“You’ll give them each a gift, a token.” Yasma handed her the goblet containing the poppy juice.

“And to the ambassador’s wife, I give the papers.”

“Yes.”

Britta swallowed half the poppy juice. She hesitated, then gave the goblet to Yasma. She had to clench her hands to keep from snatching it back.

“What do you think?” Yasma asked.

Britta dragged her attention away from the poppy juice. “I think it’ll serve very well.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

J
AUMÉ FOUND THE
horse when he was picking apples in an orchard. It came across the grass to investigate the intruder in its domain. He gave it an apple and looked it over. The horse was a dappled gray gelding, wiry, no longer young.

He glanced at the farmhouse visible behind the apple trees. No smoke came from the chimney.
It’s empty. There’s no one there.

But he didn’t go to check. He filled his blanket with apples, slung it over his shoulder, and led the horse up the rutted lane to the road.

Jaumé glanced again at the farmhouse, at the smokeless chimney, and clambered up on the horse’s back.
It’s not stealing. They left him behind. They don’t want him.

But he didn’t quite believe it. Somehow he knew that if he walked up to the house and knocked on the door, there’d be someone inside. Someone who wanted the gray gelding.

Even so, he touched his heels to the horse’s flanks. Obediently, it trotted westward, along the muddy road.

Jaumé fisted his hands in the gray mane and looked ahead. Guilt rode him, as he rode the horse.
Thief.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

B
Y NOON THEY
were halfway up the escarpment. Harkeld paused, panting. Sweat dripped from his chin and stuck his shirt to his back. He wiped his face with a damp sleeve. A glance downward made his stomach lurch. The fields of Lundegaard, spread far below, seemed to beckon him. It was all too easy to imagine plummeting down. He pressed closer to the rockface. Ahead, the path zigzagged upward, following the folds of the cliff, narrow, steep, littered with loose rock. Bands of pink streaked the sandstone.

Harkeld unstoppered his waterskin and gulped a mouthful of lukewarm water. Behind and ahead, horses and men labored up the path.

Movement above caught his eye: a hawk gliding on the air currents. Its breast feathers were pale, silvery. Petrus.

Harkeld found himself envying the witch.

Envy a witch?
Next, I’ll be wanting to be one
.

He set the stopper firmly back in the mouth of the waterskin, angry with himself, and began to climb again.

T
HEY STRAGGLED TO
the top as the wisps of a golden sunset were spreading across the sky.

“Thank the All-Mother,” Justen said.

Harkeld nodded. His throat was dry; he’d drained his waterskin a good hour ago. He stared around him. He’d expected a flat plain of sand; instead a choppy sea of sandstone—cream, pink, red, and every shade in between—stretched as far as he could see. The Masse desert. “There’s a river?” he asked Tomas. Now that they’d stopped climbing, his legs were trembling.

“About half a mile that way,” Tomas said, with a nod north. “We’ll camp there.”

“Good.” His clothes clung to him, drenched with sweat, but his throat was so dry it hurt. A headache hammered behind his eyes.

T
HEY REACHED THE
River Ner as dusk fell. The riverbed was wide, clogged with massive boulders, and apparently dry. “There’s water here?”

“Follow Petrus,” someone said behind him.