The Sentinel Mage by Emily Gee

been doing nothing but sit in a saddle for the last three days. He swung his arms, trying to work out the stiffness. “How about some wrestling?” he asked Justen.
    The armsman blinked. “Now?”
    “After we’ve seen to the horses.”
    Darkness fell while they unloaded the packhorses. Cora and Gerit set about making a meal. “Well?” Harkeld said, once the horses were hobbled.
    “Er...” Justen glanced towards the fire. The witch, Petrus, walked into the circle of firelight, a blanket around his shoulders. “I don’t want to hurt you, sire.”
    “A friendly bout,” Harkeld said, stripping off his shirt.
    Justen hesitated, and then shrugged. “All right.” He pulled his shirt over his head and kicked off his boots.
    They started slowly, testing each other’s strength, each other’s skill, grappling and breaking off, their feet scuffing up wet leaves. Harkeld saw an opening —now —and came in low, driving his shoulder into Justen’s hip. The armsman grunted and sprawled backwards. Harkeld followed him. They wrestled, rolled, rose to their knees. He had his arm around Justen’s throat—
    Justen grabbed his elbow and drove his weight forward, breaking the hold. He rolled free and sprang to his feet. His teeth glinted in the firelight as he grinned.
    Harkeld stood. He wiped sweat and rain from his face. Justen’s amulet caught the firelight as they circled. They came together again, forehead to forehead, gripping each other’s arms. Harkeld tightened his hold on Justen’s left arm and shifted his balance, preparing to bring the armsman down. Got you.
    Justen twisted free, his skin slick with rain. He dropped to one knee. Harkeld’s breath exhaled in a whoosh as his armsman’s shoulder rammed into his stomach. Justen grabbed him behind the knees, heaved—
    Harkeld found himself face down on the ground, gasping for breath.
    Someone laughed. He thought it was Petrus.
    Harkeld pushed himself up and spat leaf mold from his mouth.
    “Did I hurt you, sire?”
    Only my pride. “No.” Harkeld climbed to his feet. He looked at his armsman with newfound respect. “Again.”
    They wrestled until the stew was cooked and it was too dark to see more than the pale blur of Justen’s amulet. Harkeld walked back to the overhang and the fire, breathing heavily. He rolled his shoulders. The stiffness was gone.
     
     
    “T HAT WAS A good wrestling match,” Petrus said as he changed clothes with Innis. “You nailed him a couple of times.”
    It was hard to tell in the dimness, but he thought Innis grinned. “I like being Justen.”
    Petrus paused, one leg in the wet trews. “Innis, you need to be careful.”
    “Don’t worry,” she said, wrapping herself in the blanket. “I know this is the shape I’m meant to be. It’s just...you’re lucky to be so strong.” She handed him the amulet. “Can you ask about the curse tonight?”
    “The curse?” The disc of walrus ivory was warm in his hand. “What about it?”
    “How much do you think he knows?”
    Petrus shrugged. “Not a lot.”
    “So ask questions.”
    Petrus grunted. He put the amulet over his head. It rested below his collarbone, warm and smooth. “If he wants to know, he can ask himself. Surly son of a bitch.”
    “You’d be surly too, if you were him. He’s lost everything. He’s like a mage who’s been stripped of his magic.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Please, Petrus?”
    Jealousy stabbed inside him. “Fancy him, do you?”
    Innis removed her hand. “No. I feel sorry for him.”
    Petrus bit his tongue. Fool. He shrugged into the wet shirt. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll ask about the curse.”
     
     
    P ETRUS PUSHED A lump of meat around his bowl. Beside him, Prince Harkeld ate silently, not looking at anyone. His face was dark with shadows, dark with stubble. His hostility was almost a tangible thing.
    Petrus glanced at Innis. He scooped up a spoonful of stew. “Dareus, can you tell me about Ivek’s curse?”
    “The curse?