The Princess Knight

by G. A. Aiken

  She covered her face, barely heard sobs coming from behind her hands, and turned toward the vicar.

  “Good sirs,” the vicar said, “you cannot take these honorable men away from us. Not now, when we rely on them so much.”

  The captain swung his finger and the soldiers brought their spears up so they weren’t pointing directly at Tadesse and Faraji, but the men didn’t move away.

  “Stay here. I’ll be back,” he ordered.

  Once the captain was gone, the vicar patted Tadesse and Faraji, calmly telling them to put their arms down, even as the soldiers immediately grew tense again.

  “It’s all right, lads,” the vicar soothed. “Everything will be all right.”

  The captain returned and motioned toward them. “Come on then.”

  “Come where?” the vicar asked.

  “Queen Beatrix would like to meet with you, Vicar.” He smiled. “And all your . . . friends.”

  Uh-oh.

  * * *

  Quinn and Gemma searched through Her Majesty’s room but found nothing. They’d also searched the king’s study, his privy chamber, her privy chamber, the queen’s study. Thankfully the rooms had been close by and they’d been able to avoid most of the castle guards. Not easy. They were as numerous as the rats in the walls. Keeley’s castle didn’t have any rats . . . Quinn was sure that was due to the demon wolves.

  For the first time ever . . . he loved those demon wolves. Because he hated rats.

  “What about the library?” Quinn asked, which got him nothing but matching looks of disdain from Gemma and the Follower of Her Word.

  “What?”

  “That’s a little obvious, isn’t it?” Gemma asked.

  “I thought obvious was the point.”

  “Not that obvious.”

  “Her husband has the library searched thrice weekly,” the Follower—er. . . uh . . . Agathon—informed them.

  “There is not a lot of trust between them, is there?” Quinn noticed. What a sad marriage. It seemed the pair went out of their way to spend as little time together as they could manage. There were even rooms, apparently, just for the king’s women. Women who had been handpicked by the queen, according to Agathon. Women she allowed him to use for his “sexual needs but who knew their place.”

  Quinn couldn’t imagine living like that.

  After all these years and despite all the bickering, his parents still slept together and still found things to laugh about. Mostly others’ misfortune, but they still laughed. What they didn’t do was search each other’s things like Marius and Beatrix.

  “Does Marius search himself or just have servants do it all?” Gemma asked.

  “Well, since King Marius cannot . . .”

  Gemma stopped searching and turned to Agathon. “Cannot . . . what?”

  The Follower cleared his throat. “Read.”

  She sneered. “My sister must be making full use of that.”

  “She is, I’m afraid. But he uses his mother to assist him.”

  Gemma began to pace. “Where else can we look? Some place obvious but not too obvious.”

  “And where her husband doesn’t obsessively look,” Quinn said, sitting on the bed.

  Gemma jerked to a stop, her arms swinging wildly. Her reaction was so exaggerated that both males leaned away from her.

  “Agathon, is Marius like his father?”

  “In what way?”

  “Does he have a lot of bastard children?”

  “Um . . . yes. From the years before he was married to Queen Beatrix. I think he’s afraid to have any now.”

  “Are they here? In the castle?”

  “They’re still the children of the king, so yes. They’re taught by pacifist monks along with the other children.”

  “What other children?”

  “Queen Beatrix has brought other royal children here and keeps them in the castle to ensure the . . . uh . . . loyalty of their parents.”

  “She’s holding them hostage?” Quinn asked.

  “She doesn’t put it that way.”

  “Where’s the classroom?” Gemma asked.

  “It’s a room in the monks’ tower.” Agathon’s eyes grew wide and, for the first time, he began to smile. “Oh. I see.”

  “Because I’m guessing King Marius never sees his bastard children. Just as his father never saw his bastard children even though they all lived in the same castle.”

  “Can we get to the tower from here?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes, but the monks, they might be a problem.”

  Gemma smiled, which did not put Quinn at ease.

  “I’ll deal with the pacifist monks.”

  Quinn couldn’t help but ask, “You’re not going to kill the monks . . . are you?”

  Gemma turned to him. “Why would you even ask me that?”

  With a grimace, Quinn admitted, “That’s not really an answer.”

  She walked away from him.

  “Still not an answer.”

  * * *

  Ferdinand knew that the Abbess and the assassins were uncomfortable. He didn’t blame them. But he wasn’t yet ready to rule out the possibility of negotiating a peace with Queen Beatrix. Maybe they could avoid a war between these two strong queens. Maybe dividing the lands between the two was a new way to approach the situation, a new way to deal with a changing way of life. He knew the sisters had a lot of bad blood between them, but bad blood could be dealt with. He just needed to find out what he was dealing with on both sides.

  He’d already looked into the eyes of Queen Keeley. She was stubborn, clear-eyed, extremely naïve, and only average when it came to the knowledge of the ancients—at least concerning subjects not having to do with the blacksmithing arts. The thing he appreciated most about Queen Keeley was her good heart. She cared about others. It wasn’t a necessity for a ruler, but it didn’t hurt.

  Now he just needed to assess Queen Beatrix, and without all the hatred the war monk spit out anytime her younger sister’s name was mentioned.

  All four of them were led into the Old King’s castle. Midday meal was currently underway. Long dining tables were arranged around three sides of the room, with the king and queen at the very head.

  Four servants brought up four chairs and placed them across the table from the king and queen. Ferdinand, Hurik, and the two assassins were led to the chairs. The guards pushed the two assassins onto theirs but simply directed him and the nun to their seats. It seemed rude that no food or drink was offered to their little group, but that could have been a simple oversight. He wouldn’t hold that against anyone at this point.

  Ferdinand studied the room. The lower-level royals had no interest in them at all. They continued eating and talking amongst themselves. The king also had no interest in their presence. He was busy speaking to a very pretty and very young woman next to him, who seemed flattered by his attention. If the queen was bothered by this, she didn’t show it. And the longer Ferdinand watched, the more certain he was that, no, the queen wasn’t bothered at all by the king’s lack of attention to her and his obsessive interest in this young woman.

  The queen herself wasn’t completely alone. She had a mystic sitting next to her. A mystic that Ferdinand immediately recognized. His name was Ivan. His hair was very long now but it still didn’t look as if he washed it as often as he should. He wore only black and ate with his hands. He was not affiliated with any sect, because none would have him. Ferdinand didn’t know which god or gods Ivan worshipped because Ivan never mentioned any.

  And yet here he sat, next to a queen.

  When their eyes locked, Ivan nodded at him and Ferdinand nodded back, but that was all the acknowledgment he was going to give him. His patience with others could only be stretched so far.

  “So you all traveled together,” the queen finally said. She wasn’t much for preamble, was she? No welcome, no offers of food or drink, and not even a perfunctory smile.

  “We did, Your Majesty,” Ferdinand replied. “If not
for these good men, we would not have survived.”

  “And you’re a truce vicar, yes?”

  “I am. Here to smooth the way for all involved. So if there’s anything I can do for you, Queen Beatrix, please just let me know. I would love to assist you in any way to avoid tensions between yours and any other realm.”

  “Even Prince Cyrus?”

  “That would be difficult . . . since he keeps killing rather than listening to reason.”

  She gave what might be considered a chuckle and glanced at Ivan, the pair sharing a moment. “Excellent point, Vicar.”

  “Of course, your assistance with fighting Prince Cyrus would be greatly appreciated,” he noted.

  She lifted her gaze to Ferdinand’s and, in that moment, it was as if an icy wind had slammed into his back. He couldn’t explain it. He was not sure he wanted to. It was just something he felt.

  “We have been doing our best,” the queen said. Ferdinand noticed that she kept her sentences short. Probably to hide her peasant accent. An accent her sisters didn’t bother to disguise. “Sending out protection units.”

  “But an army to go toe-to-toe with him . . . ?”

  “We’re doing our best.”

  A soldier entered the room and walked over to the queen. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear. Her jaw tightened and she said, “Then find him. Now.”

  Certain she must have noticed that her personal assistant was missing, Ferdinand kept himself facing forward and his expression artfully blank.

  “So Ivan,” he said, smiling at the mystic, “what brings you here to our lovely queen’s side?”

  Gesturing with both grease-covered hands to the air around them, he vaguely replied, “All things. For instance”—he dropped his arms to the table and stared at Ferdinand—“I am simply fascinated by this little friendship you four seem to have. Not too long ago your sects were all such enemies.”

  “War makes strange bedfellows, does it not, old friend?”

  Ivan gazed at Ferdinand for a long moment. “If you say so . . . old friend.”

  * * *

  With the children off for the midday meal with their parents—the only time they got with their mothers and fathers, and all under the watchful eyes of castle guards—the monks could not only get some time to eat but some quiet time to themselves as well. Blissful, wonderful quiet.

  How they all missed it.

  Most pacifist monk orders only dealt with children sent to them as orphans who would, one day, become pacifist monks themselves. That meant they were taught the ways of the order from the beginning, especially the practice of quiet meditation and worship of the suns god. But to secure their own safety in the Old King’s castle, away from Prince Cyrus and his mad armies, these monks had been forced to agree to teach the royal children. Not the ways of their order, but simple things like language, math, history. On a good day, the children were loud and demanding. And, as royals, they could only be reprimanded but so much. It was daunting to say the least.

  Yet none of the brothers could complain. At least they were alive. Many of their comrades were dead, their souls lost when Cyrus’s soldiers tortured and killed them before burning down their monasteries, eon-long symbols of safety and healing.

  They’d heard the nuns had not been doing well either in this political climate. Who would attack defenseless women?

  The door to the schoolroom opened and the queen’s Follower of Her Word rushed in with a . . . Oh, by the good blessings of the suns!

  The brothers looked at each other in panic and their leader quickly motioned them out, into the safety of the upstairs cells.

  The war monk swept into the classroom. She’d brought some kind of barbaric pet with her. It wore a kilt and had unruly hair. Weren’t war monks bad enough? But now they dragged Amichais around with them like pet dogs as well?

  She had her arms behind her back, her fur cape sweeping the floor at her feet. She glared at everything in the room as if she was looking for something out of order.

  “Yes, Agathon?” he asked.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Brother. This—”

  “Yes. I know what she is. What do you want here?” he asked the war monk directly.

  “Are you questioning me?” she demanded.

  “Well, if you want my help—”

  “Show me your papers.”

  “What papers?”

  “All your papers. Now.”

  He had no idea what this woman was asking for, but he knew better than to challenge a war monk. He’d been a pacifist monk since he was a child and he remembered the day he’d watched the Abbot’s head roll down the stairs after he’d questioned a war monk’s demands. It could have happened yesterday, the memory was so clear.

  Not wanting to relive that day yet again, he led them up the stairs to the small private library where the brothers worked on translations and hand-published prayer books.

  Agathon, the war monk, and the Amichai searched the room carefully but, to his surprise, they never once ripped anything apart, which he’d truly expected. He’d thought he and his brothers would be cleaning up after the monk and her dog for days. Yet they were very careful—almost . . . respectful?—of their work until the war monk suddenly gasped and said, “I think I’ve found it!”

  The three huddled together and looked over some scrolls he did not recognize, their gazes scanning each one, their expressions growing more somber with every passing moment.

  The brothers who were in the room watched the intruders with horror, but they wouldn’t leave these strangers alone among their important work. So they stood by and waited for the real ugliness to set in.

  Agathon turned back to the table where the war monk had found the scrolls.

  “Look. I think I found a—”

  The door swung open and the castle guards stood there.

  “Lord Agathon, are you . . .”

  He knew, as soon as he saw the expressions on the guards’ faces change from relief at finding the queen’s Follower of Her Word to shock at the presence of the others, that something was terribly wrong.

  “Get out!” he yelled at his brothers. “Get out now!”

  That’s when the war monk grabbed Agathon from behind and put a knife to his throat. Confusing, since the Follower seemed to be helping the two outsiders.

  “Oh, uh . . . help,” Agathon suddenly announced. “Yes. Help me! I’m in, uh . . . great danger!”

  With the blade against Agathon’s throat and the Amichai brandishing his spear, the three went out a side door, slamming it behind them and securing something against it. The guards ran after them, hurling themselves against the wood until it splintered and broke so they could keep up the chase.

  A few minutes later, the rest of his brothers returned.

  “Are you all right?” one of them asked.

  “I am.”

  “Do you know what they took?”

  “No. Because we didn’t see anything,” he told them. “They were simply . . . trying to escape.”

  “They were?”

  He blew out a breath. “They were, Brothers. They absolutely were, and that’s exactly what we will tell anyone who asks us anything.”

  * * *

  Gemma bolted down a back staircase, pulling poor Agathon behind her. Quinn took the lead, spearing any guards that got in their way.

  “Should we be killing them?” Quinn asked, after he’d killed a few more.

  “Yes.” Now that they had what they needed, she wanted Beatrix to believe they’d come here to kill her. Not to steal information. She didn’t want her sister to follow her to where they were going. At least not yet.

  “Where would my sister normally be now, Agathon?”

  “Main hall most likely.”

  “We’re looking for her now?” Quinn asked, turning and shifting to centaur, simply so he could use his hind legs to kick several soldiers in the chest and out of their way.

  “You knew the plan would change, Quinn, if we got to this point.
Or were you not listening again?”

  “Should I actually answer that?” he asked, taking his human form again.

  They continued through halls, down more backstairs, and through a tunnel until they pushed open a door and practically tumbled into the main hall. All activity stopped and all attention turned on them.

  Beatrix’s head tilted to the side as she stared at the doorway. When she spotted Agathon, her expression didn’t change. But then her gaze locked with Gemma’s, and across the hall the sisters stared at each other.

  Gemma’s sister had matured. She looked a little older. More royal. Colder. This was definitely where Beatrix belonged.

  The guards moved to swarm them, and Gemma pulled Agathon close and again put the knife to his throat.

  “Hold!” Beatrix commanded, halting everyone in the room.

  Leaning back in her chair, Beatrix said, “You didn’t really think this was going to work, did you?”

  “You know I had to try,” Gemma replied.

  “Cyrus is out there burning down convents and monasteries and you’re worried about me? Keeley must be so disappointed in you. Trying to kill your own sister.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “She doesn’t know you’re here? The out-of-control princess. How not like you.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Marius demanded. “Kill them.”

  “She has Agathon.”

  “You can get a new Follower anywhere. I’ll get you one. Guards! On my orders—”

  “No, no,” the queen interrupted, the back of her hand gently touching the king’s shoulder. “I want to see her do it.”

  “What?” the king asked.

  Beatrix gestured to Gemma. “You heard my husband, Gemma. He can get me a new Follower. I don’t need Agathon. So you do it. You slit his throat.” She motioned to the guards. “Step away. All of you move back. Now go on, Brother Gemma. Do it.”

  Gemma let out a sigh. “But you already know I can’t.”

  Beatrix glanced at her guards and said dismissively, “Now you can kill them all.”