The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

Princess Brigitta rose from the settle. “Yasma?”

“A drink for her, too, I think,” Karel said, stroking Yasma’s hair. “If you will allow, highness?”

“Of course.” Princess Brigitta held out her goblet. “Here. Take mine.”

“Oh, no.” Yasma gave a shaky sob and pushed out of his embrace. “I’ll fetch one.”

“Is she all right?” the princess asked in a low voice.

“Scared,” Karel said. “And rightly so.”

Princess Brigitta grimaced. She took off her cloak and sat again, kicking off her silk slippers, curling her feet under her. She drank another mouthful of wine. Some color had returned to her face. “Who was that man? The one talking to Jaegar.”

“I’m guessing... a Fithian poison master.”

“You guess? How?”

“He had a peg leg.”

“Who did?” Yasma returned and sat on the settle alongside the princess.

“A man who was with Jaegar,” Karel said. “The armsmen had been sent out of earshot. It seemed too much of a coincidence, given the gossip I’d heard.”

“Who was he?” Yasma asked.

“Karel thinks he’s a Fithian poison master.”

Yasma jerked, almost slopping her wine. “What?”

“It’s all right.” Princess Brigitta reached out to take Yasma’s hand. “At least... I think it is.” She frowned at Karel. “I understand the second part of the conversation. The new contract, the ship—that’s for me. But the first part... What was that about?”

“That was Jaegar refusing to pay for your father’s death.”

“It was poison?”

“I think so.” Karel briefly explained the mess hall gossip, then told Yasma about the conversation he and the princess had overheard, and Jaegar’s plan for Prince Harkeld’s capture.

“A Fithian ship? Us?” Yasma shrank back on the settle.

“Departing in five days’ time. But the princess convinced Jaegar to let her stay for the coronation.”

Princess Brigitta put down her goblet. “Let’s hope his word was given truly. If not, our plans are for naught.” She pressed a hand to her temple. “Yasma, can you take this crown off, please? It’s giving me a headache.”

Yasma stood, deftly removed the jeweled pins, unwound the hair.

The princess sighed and closed her eyes. “Thank you.” With her golden hair tumbling down her back, she seemed suddenly much younger. He was reminded that she was barely a year older than Yasma. Eighteen. Scarcely into womanhood.

Princess Brigitta looked exhausted, delicate, easily broken. And yet she’d survived marriage to Duke Rikard. She’d ruined Osgaard’s invasion of Lundegaard. And she’d masterfully deceived her brother today. She was shrewder, stronger, than she looked.

Yasma placed the crown on the floor and sat again, tucking her feet under her. “What did Jaegar say about your brothers?”

Princess Brigitta opened her eyes. “You tell her, Karel. And do sit, please.”

Karel fetched a chair and sat. He explained rapidly. Yasma listened with wide eyes, clutching Princess Brigitta’s hand. When he’d finished, she turned to the princess. “Britta...” Her voice was hushed, awed. “You’re so brave. I could never have done it.”

Princess Brigitta glanced at Karel. Her mouth twisted wryly. “But for Karel, I wouldn’t have.”

He shook his head.
You’re braver than you think, princess
. “If Jaegar keeps his word about the coronation, we can pull this off.” He didn’t dare think about failure. The consequences were too dreadful. For his family. For Yasma’s family.

“I didn’t ask where the boys are being held,” the princess said. “It seemed best to leave it.”

“I can find that out.”

Princess Brigitta’s mouth twisted again, in anger this time. “How can those armsmen give false witness? Against children!”

“A fat pouch of gold and early retirement,” Karel said. “Like Queen Sigren’s armsmen after her death.” Memory gave him a glimpse of Marten and Edvin’s faces that morning. How hard had it been for Jaegar to bend them to his will? Had it taken threat of death? Or just promise of gold?

“The boys won’t die,” Princess Brigitta said fiercely. “I won’t let it happen!”

“Britta... I’ve thought of where we can get blood from.”

The princess’s face lit with eagerness. “Tell us, Yasma!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

P
ETRUS SWAPPED WITH
Innis behind one of the tents. He donned Justen’s wet clothes, his clammy boots, his Grooten amulet, his sword. “Has he said anything I should know?”

“He hardly speaks at all, these days. None of us do.”

Petrus tucked the amulet inside his shirt. He glanced around the camp. Rand and Katlen weren’t talking as they prepared dinner, Ebril wasn’t whistling as he gathered wet branches for the fire, Hew and Frane weren’t chatting as they checked the horse’s hooves.
We’re all gritting our teeth and getting through each day
. “It’s because of Susa,” he said, putting an arm around Innis’s shoulders and pulling her close. “And the rain. And the mud. And the Mother-forsaken ugliness of this place.”

Innis rested her cheek against his chest. “Could you see how much further the woodcutting goes?”

“Forever.”

Innis sighed and pushed away. She squeezed his hand briefly and headed for the campfire.

Petrus watched her for a moment.
I love you
.

He blew out a breath, adjusted his sodden cloak, and strolled across to watch Prince Harkeld’s magic lesson.

As he approached, a tree stump a good ten yards from the prince flared alight.

“Excellent,” Cora said.

Petrus stood to one side and watched while Prince Harkeld worked to increase his range.

He didn’t like the prince, but to give him credit, the man was working hard. And he was clearly a strong fire mage. Petrus was reluctantly impressed. Once Prince Harkeld learned to use his magic to defend himself, they’d all be safer.

When the prince’s range reached fifteen yards, Cora stopped him. “How does it feel?”

“It’s not taking any more effort than lighting the campfire, just a bit more concentration.”

“And your control?”

“It feels like the magic’s only going to do what I tell it to. It doesn’t feel like it could get away from me.” His voice became doubtful. “But maybe it could?”

“Unlikely. Your magic is part of your body. It obeys you. You’d never tell your hand to scratch your nose and have it clout you on the head instead, would you?”

The prince’s expression relaxed almost into a smile. “No.”

“Your magic will obey you, just as the rest of your body obeys you.” Cora let this statement sink in, and then went on, “Accidents can happen if you’re exceedingly unclear about what you’re asking it to do. Or if you’re drunk, or panicked. But if you give your magic clear commands, if
you
know what you want it to do, you’ll have no problems.”

The prince nodded.

“Accidents can also happen if you exceed... not your ability, because you have exceptionally strong ability, but your training. Your experience. Right now, if I asked you to burn Justen’s cloak, you’d probably burn
him
. Not because your magic got away from you, but because you don’t know how to use it with sufficient precision. You don’t have the experience.”

The prince glanced at Petrus, his expression sober.

“So we’ll expand your experience.” Cora nodded at the burning stump. “Can you make that fire burn higher?”

Prince Harkeld raised his hand. The flames flared up into the sky.

A screech came from overhead. An owl tumbled down, the feathers on one wingtip alight.

The prince made an inarticulate sound. He clenched his upraised hand. The flames towering into the sky, the flames on the owl’s wing, quenched instantly.

The owl landed hard beside the campfire, became Gerit. He staggered to his feet, his face red with fury. “You cursed fool!” he bellowed. “You
burned
me.”

Cora muttered something under her breath—a swearword, Petrus thought—and hurried across to the campfire.

Petrus glanced at Prince Harkeld. The prince’s face was starkly pale. His mouth was half open, but no sound came from it.

Petrus touched the prince’s arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was me that burned him.” The prince shook him off and headed for the campfire.

Petrus followed more slowly.
An arrogant mage is a dangerous mage
. He’d said that to Innis once, when they’d discussed the prince, and there was no doubt the prince could be an arrogant bastard when he chose to be. But he didn’t appear to be an arrogant mage. Prince Harkeld’s attitude to his magic was cautious. And frightened. He was frightened of it.

The healers clustered around Gerit, examining his arm. At a gesture from Cora, Hew stripped off his clothes, shifted shape, and flapped into the sky to keep watch.

Prince Harkeld observed the healers from a distance. His face was still unnaturally pale, his expression stiff.

He’s upset
. Not pretend upset, not polite upset, but truly upset.

Once the burns were healed and Gerit dressed, Prince Harkeld walked across to Gerit. Petrus followed.

“I apologize for harming you,” the prince said.

“Magic’s not to be played with,” Gerit snapped.

“He wasn’t playing,” Petrus said, his sense of fairness bringing him to the prince’s defense. “He was learning.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be using his magic at all, not if he can’t do better ’n that.”

Petrus snorted.
Hypocrite. You wanted him to use his magic back in Lundegaard without
any
instruction
. He couldn’t say that aloud, though. Not as Justen.

“You’re an incompetent fool.”

Prince Harkeld inhaled sharply through his nose. “And you are a foul-tempered whoreson.”

Gerit bared his teeth at him and swung away towards the tents.

“Well said,” Petrus said.

The prince glanced at him, his mouth tight.

Cora hurried over to them. “What—?”

“Gerit was being Gerit,” Petrus said. “Flin here apologized and Gerit slapped him down.”

“Pay him no attention, Flin. He’s cross because you made him look foolish. Dinner’s ready. Go eat. I’ll speak to Gerit.”

For a moment, the prince didn’t move. He looked as if he wanted to stalk away, as Gerit had done. Then he nodded stiffly at Cora and turned towards the fire.

Petrus followed. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The prince dismissed the words with a shrug.

Petrus lengthened his stride and grabbed the prince’s arm, halting him. “I mean it.”

Prince Harkeld’s eyebrows pinched together. “Unhand me, armsman.”

Petrus ignored the order. “The person who misjudged his magic tonight was Gerit, not you. Any shapeshifter who flies over a fire lesson deserves to lose a few feathers!”

Firelight and shadows flickered across Prince Harkeld’s face. Was the prince even listening to him? His expression was haughty, remote.

The prince’s mouth relaxed. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Justen.”

L
ATER THAT EVENING
, after he’d swapped back with Innis, Petrus looked for Cora. She was with Rand at the picket line, checking one of the horses. Petrus crossed the mud to them.

“About Gerit...”

Rand glanced up, but didn’t stop massaging the horse’s hock. Cora straightened. “What about him?”

“He was cursed rude tonight. The prince—I mean Flin—apologized, and Gerit just—”

“I’ve spoken with him about it.”

“He makes us all look bad.”

“No, only himself.”

Petrus conceded this with a shrug. But even so... “He shouldn’t be a Sentinel.” Sentinels weren’t meant to incite trouble, they were meant to prevent it, or at the very least, minimize it. A good Sentinel was calm, diplomatic, even-tempered. Not argumentative and rude.