Read Online The Sentinel Mage by Emily Gee - Free Book Online Page A

father is, Britta. He’s a dangerous man. I think he killed the boys’ mother.
    Her maid was in the bedchamber, mending the hem of a gown. She glanced up as Britta entered.
    “Yasma, my father wants to see me. I need a new overtunic. This one’s creased.”
    Yasma scrambled to her feet. “Do you think—?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Britta unfastened her girdle and shrugged out of the wrinkled tunic while Yasma fetched a fresh one. A glance in the mirror told her that the silk undergown had survived the nursery unmarked by ink or grubby fingers.
    Yasma returned with a sky-blue tunic in her arms. She lifted it over Britta’s head and settled the fabric neatly over her shoulders, smoothing the long folds. The heavy silk was embroidered with gold thread.
    Yasma fastened the girdle briskly. “Your hair.”
    Britta sat before the mirror.
    “What do you think he wants?” the maid asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    Their eyes met in the mirror. Probably Duke Rikard. But neither of them said it aloud.
    Britta watched as Yasma tidied her hair, catching up stray tendrils and weaving them back into place around the golden crown. Her eyes were drawn to the iron band of bondservice that gleamed dully on the girl’s arm. “A few days before he left, Harkeld told me something about Queen Sigren.”
    “Yes?” Yasma said, her fingers moving deftly.
    “He said that she argued with my father the night she died. About bondservice.”
    Yasma’s fingers slowed.
    “Sigren said that bondservice was barbaric and cruel, and it had to stop.” Britta glanced at Yasma in the mirror, remembering the first time she’d seen the girl, remembering the mute misery on her face, the utter despair in her eyes. “Father said that Osgaard’s economy couldn’t survive without bondservants.”
    Yasma said nothing. She continued weaving strands of hair around the golden crown.
    “Sigren disagreed. She said it’s the greed of Osgaard’s rulers that keeps the people so oppressed. She said that if we forwent our golden bathtubs, our gilded roof tiles, we wouldn’t need to raise taxes again. We could free the bondservants.” Britta stared at her reflection. The chair she sat on was gilded. The pins Yasma used to fasten the crown into her hair were gold set with precious stones. Even the mirror was gilt-framed.
    “Father threw his goblet at Sigren and ordered her from the room. Harkeld said that was the last time he saw her. She died that night, in her bath tub.” A golden bath tub.
    Yasma said nothing.
    “Harkeld said...her death was no accident.”
    Yasma met her eyes in the mirror. She lowered her hands and stepped back. “I’ve finished.”
    Britta swallowed. She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. A princess stared back at her, a delicate crown woven into her hair. Gold thread glinted on the sleeveless overtunic. A golden girdle circled her waist. The long-sleeved cream undergown with its flowing sleeves was made of rich and shimmering silk.
    Her face was as pale as the undergown, her lips colorless.
    Father’s a bully , Harkeld’s voice said in her head. Never let him see you’re afraid of him.
    Britta pinched her cheeks and watched some color flow back into her face. “I must go,” she said, turning away from the mirror. “Father hates to be kept waiting.”
    Yasma didn’t curtsey. Instead, she reached out and clasped Britta’s hand. “Be careful.”
    Britta returned the grip tightly, then she blew out a breath and strode into the parlor. Her armsman stood alongside the door, his feet the regulation twelve inches apart, his dark, hawk-like face expressionless.
    He opened the door.
    Britta marched through it. The armsman fell into step behind her.
    She heard Harkeld’s voice as she walked: We will defy him over Rikard, but we must be careful. A bondservant scurried ahead of them along the corridor, his head lowered submissively, an iron armband pinched around his upper arm.
    They came to a flight of shallow steps. The