seemed to help. The dizziness eased slightly. Innis drank from the river, splashing cool water on her face. The dizziness retreated even further.
She crouched in the rivulet and washed away soot and blood and sweat, washed away the terrible memory of last night. Then she sat on one of the smooth, rounded boulders and let the breeze dry her skin. Tombs lined the canyon to the height of a man’s head on either side. Some were natural, others looked as if they’d been cut into the rock by the ancient Massens. Above the tombs, the cliffs towered, red sandstone veined with orange and yellow, white and slate-gray, and riddled with holes—tiny cavities the size of her thumb, holes that were fist-sized, head-sized, the size of a man’s torso, and, scattered here and there, caves large enough for a person to huddle in.
Large enough for a person.
Her weariness evaporated abruptly. She caught her breath and scanned the cliffs. One, two...four...seven...ten, twelve. There were more than enough caves for them all.
Relief surged through her. There was no need to fight tonight. They’d be safe.
On the heels of relief, came grief. These cliffs were no different from those that had loomed over them last night. If I’d thought of this yesterday, Dareus would still be alive.
Tears stung her eyes. Innis blinked them back. This is what being a Sentinel means: death. You knew that. Dareus knew it too. Don’t let him down by blubbering.
She’d heard Dareus speak twice at the Academy about being a Sentinel. He’d concluded both lectures by reading the names of Sentinels killed performing their duty. It was a long list. Both her parents’ names were on it. Now Dareus’s would be too.
Innis washed the tears from her eyes. Crouching, she drew a circle in water on a boulder with her fingertip. “All-Mother, take care of him,” she whispered, holding Dareus’s face in her mind.
The water evaporated slowly, the sandstone drying from red to dusky pink.
When the circle was no longer visible, Innis gathered her magic, imagining herself in the shape of a hawk. Her skin prickled, a sensation close to pain. She closed her eyes for an instant; when she opened them she saw from a hawk’s viewpoint: the sharpness of vision, the wider field of view. Her eyes caught movement on the far side of the canyon: a lizard scuttling.
Innis spread her wings and lifted into the air, heading back down the canyon.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
KAREL STRODE THROUGH the marble corridors, dressed in the gold and scarlet uniform, his sword belted at his side and the armsman’s torque around his throat. Hurry. Hurry.
But when he reached Duke Rikard’s rooms, all was quiet. The duke must still be briefing the new commander. There was no bustle, no noise, no urgency. The door to the bedchamber was shut.
The armsman he replaced left without speaking a word.
Karel stood for a moment in the empty salon. Should he take his place against the wall like a good armsman and wait for whatever happened next?
No.
He strode across to the bedchamber and knocked. After a moment, Yasma opened the door. “Karel.” Surprise crossed her face. “Is it noon already?”
“I’m early.” Behind Yasma, he saw the princess seated before the mirror, the golden crown partly bound to her head. “Is the princess going into exile with Rikard?”
Princess Brigitta’s head turned. She stared at him across the room.
“You didn’t know?” Karel said, looking at the princess, not Yasma.
“No,” Yasma said. “The duke left just after midnight. He hasn’t been back since.”
“Exile?” Princess Brigitta pushed to her feet and hurried across the bedchamber. “Rikard?”
“Your father’s stripped him of his dukedom,” Karel told her. “And command of the army. He’s being exiled to Horst. Leaving tomorrow.” He waited a heartbeat, and then asked directly, “Do you have to go with him?”
It was an impertinence to speak so to her, but the princess didn’t appear to mind. “I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed, and then she blinked and purpose came into her face. “No. I won’t go with him!” She turned and half-ran back to the mirror. “Quickly, Yasma! Finish my hair! “
KAREL WAITED TENSELY in the salon. If Rikard comes now—
He paced to one end of the room and back. The door to the bedchamber opened. Princess Brigitta emerged. She crossed the salon, then turned in a flurry of silk. “You must come too, Yasma! Bring my cloak. Quickly!”
They walked briskly—mistress, maid, armsman—through the corridors of the palace. At the king’s antechamber, the princess demanded entrance. “I must speak with