anger, softened his voice. “Tell me who did this to you.” And I will rip his balls off and shove them down his throat.
“It was your armsman.”
Harkeld stared at her, his mouth open. “Justen?” He shook his head. “No. Impossible. He’s been with me all day...” Except when I was in the steam room. In a flash, he understood. It hadn’t been disapproval he’d seen on Justen’s face; it had been fear. “After the wrestling,” he said grimly. “That’s when he came.”
“He said...he wanted to try his master’s whore for himself.”
Rage flared inside him, so hot, so intense, that for a moment he was blind and deaf.Harkeld blinked, shook his head to clear it. “Why didn’t you tell me—”
“He said he’d hurt me if I told anyone.” Lenora dabbed her eyes.
“He did, did he?” Harkeld pulled on his boots with angry haste. Thrice-cursed son of a witch. I’ll kill him. His hands shook with fury as he buckled his sword belt.
THIS TIME, PETRUS took the shape of a cat. But when he leapt down onto the stone window sill and peered in through one of the diamond-shaped panes, there were no lovers entwined in the bed. He watched as Prince Harkeld strode from the bedchamber.
That was quick.
The lady seemed satisfied, though. Her smile was smug.
Petrus shrugged, leapt lightly up onto the guttering, and padded back across the slate roof.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
INNIS STEPPED OUT from the stables and the smell of hay and manure. She pushed Justen’s short hair back from her brow. Above her, the castle rose in tiers—roofs, battlements, walls of gray stone—to its pinnacle, a squat tower from which the blue and gold flag of Lundegaard flew. She began the climb back to the upper levels, up a flight of stone steps that hugged the first buttress, then across a courtyard. She glanced up. High above, a face peered down at her from a parapet. From this distance, it almost looked like Prince Harkeld.
The next staircase ducked under a stone archway and climbed inside the outer wall of the castle, twisting and turning, rising steeply. The stairwell was dim; the torches in their iron brackets were unlit. The only light came from arrow slits.
Innis paused to catch her breath halfway up. An arrow slit gave her a narrow view towards Masse. She stared out. Cliffs and desert awaited them in the north, but all she could see was farmland, a neat patchwork of fields.
“There you are.”
She turned her head, blinking. After the bright sunlight, the stairwell was as dark as night. “Sire?”
“I’ve been looking for you.” Prince Harkeld’s voice was grim.
“Do you want—?”
Something slammed into her face. She fell, clutching for the wall, smacking her head against stone, landing jarringly on the steps.
Innis shook her head, tasting blood. Was the prince being attacked? She pushed dizzily to her feet, groping for the wall, reaching for Justen’s sword. “Sire—”
Someone kicked her in the chest. She went backwards, tumbling down the steps, rolling, bouncing, sliding at last to a halt, dazed and winded. Breath came after a suffocating eternity, and with it, pain, blossoming inside her.
Footsteps rang on the stairs, coming towards her. Innis pushed up on an elbow. A shadowy figure loomed over her.
Someone hauled her to her feet, hands fisted in her shirt. She groped for her sword, struggling to see. Where were the guards? Where was Gerit?
“You son of a witch!” The voice was the prince’s, fierce. “Thought you could get away with it, did you? Did you?” He slammed her against the wall.
“Wha—?”
She never finished the word. Prince Harkeld’s hands were at her throat, gripping so tightly she couldn’t breathe. “I’m going to make sure you can never rut a woman again.” His voice was thick with rage.
Innis barely had time to register the words before his knee took her hard in the groin. The agony was acute. If she’d had breath, she would have screamed. The prince released his grip on her throat. Her legs buckled and she collapsed.
Through the haze of pain she heard Prince Harkeld draw his sword.
Innis tried to breathe, to speak. “Sire...”
“Get up.”
She couldn’t move, could only lie gasping at his feet. Behind him, the staircase stretched upward, empty.
“Get up!” His hand clenched in her hair, hauling her upright. He thrust her against the wall and uttered a harsh laugh. “Not so brave now, are you, armsman?”
She couldn’t see the prince’s face, but she saw the gleam of his sword. Shift! she screamed to herself. Become a lion. But her magic was