by G. A. Aiken
Gemma drove her sword into another oncoming soldier, then pushed him out of her way. She kept moving, entering the castle walls without any of the other enemy soldiers following her. She had expected to find a battle inside. Men defending the duke and his family. But she soon realized that the royals had made a quick exit from their old home, probably heading toward Beatrix’s lands.
Although Gemma would have preferred to get her hands on the duke, this situation was tolerable. Keeley’s army was decimating the duke’s army and without any of his soldiers, he would be of little use to Beatrix and her husband. That worked just as well as taking the duke captive.
Keeping her sword at the ready, Gemma moved among the remains of the duke’s home. She had no use for the things he’d left behind. A few objects of actual gold and steel and silver would be taken and given to their mother to be made into weapons by the blacksmith. But Gemma was looking for more. She was looking for information. Anything that could help them in their ongoing battle with Beatrix.
Far in the back of the castle, she found a room with several large tables. On them were maps and communications on parchment between the duke and King Marius, also known as Marius, the Wielder of Hate. Without meaning to, Gemma again found herself grudgingly worried about Beatrix being the wife of a man infamous for his brutality and heartless nature. It irritated her that she cared at all. Clearly Beatrix hadn’t cared about family when she’d buried her blade in Keeley’s gut. Her own sister. And for what? A chance at being queen? Keeley had spent her entire life caring for Beatrix. Taking care of her, giving her money, making sure she had all the books she could possibly want and, most importantly, ignoring the obvious fact that Beatrix was an evil bitch who should have been put down at birth the same way they put down diseased pigs on their farm.
Yet despite knowing all that, Gemma still found herself worrying about Beatrix. Worrying about the life she was living with someone like Marius. And she hated herself a little for giving a horse’s shit one way or the other. Beatrix didn’t deserve Gemma’s worry. She didn’t deserve anything except a blade to the neck. Not that Keeley would ever let that happen.
“We should burn this place to the ground,” a voice said from behind her, “so they can never return.”
Gemma gripped her blade tighter but did not turn around.
“I wish you would stop sneaking up on me.”
“I didn’t sneak up on you. It’s my legs.”
Confused by that statement, she finally turned to face Quinn.
“What?”
“It’s my legs.” He looked down at the long, muscular legs that stretched from under the leather kilt that every battle-ready Amichai wore. There were small scars over the length of each leg but on his left one was a very long, very jagged scar that reached from behind his knee around to the front of the thigh and up, until it disappeared under his kilt. “When I only have two, I seem to move very lightly. I barely make any sound at all.” He gazed at her a long moment before continuing. “But when I add the other two—and hooves, of course—then suddenly I end up making much more noise than I mean to. Unless I wrap my hooves in cloth. Then my stride is less noisy.”
He stopped again . . . and gazed at her before finally finishing with, “I’m always surprised you humans aren’t quieter when you move. You only have two legs. How hard is it?”
It was still strange for her. Even now. To have these discussions with the Amichais. To say out loud that no, they weren’t human. They were centaurs who merely took on human form when they wished. Sometimes Gemma walked into her sister’s bedchamber and found Caid of the Scarred Earth Clan complaining about something minor while his long black tail swatted at one of the stray cats that roamed the castle walls and liked to hang from the Amichais’ tails. He didn’t even seem to notice he was doing it. Nor did he notice the kittens climbing his horse legs. And Keeley, who sat on the bed, listening to his complaints and petting a baby goat, didn’t seem to notice or care either. That’s when Gemma knew life among the Smythe clan had well and truly changed.
“Are you still following me?” she asked Quinn, whose white-blond hair often made her think the gods had gone out of their way to make him the exact opposite of his black-haired brother, Caid.
“I’m only here because I was ord—”
“If you say ‘ordered’ one . . . more . . . time . . .”
“So I can’t say ‘ordered’ or ‘princess’? And yet you are a princess who I was ordered to follow.”
Gemma stepped around him. “Fuck off, Amichai. I have no time for you or . . .”
Gemma’s complaint faded when the Amichai moved past her and stopped, his head tilting one way, then the other. He heard something. Was trying to follow the sound.
“This way,” he barked before setting off.
Gemma immediately followed. Together, they made their way deep into the empty castle, cutting through the kitchens and out an exit into the open fields. A dangerous way to live, with no protection at one’s back like a small courtyard.
She stood next to Quinn, sweeping her gaze across the grassy, open area until she saw him. His bright yellow robes flapped as he desperately ran toward the castle while a man on horseback charged after him, his big axe ready to remove the runner’s head.
“Do you know either?” Quinn asked her.
“The one in robes is a monk. A pacifist order that does no harm to any. I don’t recognize the armor of the other.”
“Good enough,” Quinn said as he unslung the longbow strapped across his chest and pulled an arrow from the leather quiver hanging from his sword belt. He nocked the arrow, aimed, and released.
The hit was direct, in the chest, taking the rider right off his horse.
As much as Quinn annoyed her, Gemma couldn’t ignore the Amichai’s skill with a longbow, only rivaled by his sister, who used a composite bow as if it were an extension of her arm.
Still, Gemma wasn’t about to tell Quinn any of that. He was arrogant enough already.
* * *
Gemma brought two fingers to her mouth and whistled. Quickly, as if he’d just been waiting for her call, Gemma’s horse trotted through the castle and into the field, stopping right beside her.
Dagger tossed his black mane, which had been braided into four thick plaits so it didn’t get in his way during battle, and pounded his front hoof against the ground. She mounted him with ease and clucked her tongue against the top of her mouth once. Dagger galloped toward the hysterical man still running toward them. As they neared, Quinn heard his screams for help as the monk stumbled, fell, then got back to his feet again.
Gemma reached him first and when she stopped, the man dropped to his knees beside her.
“Please! Don’t hurt me! Please! I am a pacifist monk! I am a pacifist monk!” he screamed. Begging.
Gemma stared down at him.
“I know what you are, Brother. I won’t hurt you. No soldier should be hurting you. They should only come to your monastery for healing and care. As a sanctuary.”
Still on his knees, the monk shook his head.
“They’ve killed them all!” he screeched. “All of them! They’ve killed every one!”
Gemma glanced off, her brows pulled low, her blue eyes dark, her expression unreadable. Quinn watched her closely, curious to see what she would do. When monks from different orders passed through their town, Gemma wasn’t exactly welcoming. At best, she simply ignored them. At worst, there were nasty fights in the nearby taverns that ended with her getting sewn up the next day and refusing to discuss the cause of the brawl.
But this felt different.
After a moment, Gemma looked over her shoulder and pointed at a unit of Keeley’s soldiers.
“You lot!” she called out. “With us!” Gemma held out her hand and the monk grabbed it. She hauled him onto Dagger’s back and set the horse racing forward. Quinn followed.
When they reached the nearby monastery, the monk immediately slipped off Dagger. He walked to the ope
n front doors, dropped to his knees in his gratingly cheery bright yellow robes, clenched his hands together, focused his eyes on the brilliant sky above, and unleashed prayers that were no more than sobbing cries to his god.
Not knowing how to respond, Quinn passed him without a word and entered the monastery.
Gemma had already beat him inside and was now in the main hall. She was already down on one knee, the tip of her blade pressed against the stone floor, her right hand gripping the pommel; her head bowed in prayer.
He understood why. It was a normal reaction for anyone who’d given their life over to the gods, which she had. Although in the last fourteen months, few could tell. He clearly remembered that morning when he’d walked by her bedroom to see her packing away her monk’s robes and chainmail and weapons in a trunk at the end of her bed. Her mother had then outfitted her in all new gear, made just for her by the renowned blacksmith, but it wasn’t the same, was it? Seeing her in mere warrior’s garb. Not to Quinn anyway. He was used to seeing the queen’s sister striding around in her black tunic with the blood-red rune emblazoned on the front and back, and the exquisitely made black chainmail that proclaimed she was the warrior of a god.
Quinn didn’t know what had happened. What had made her take off her robes and stop answering to the title Brother Gemma, and he didn’t ask. Although he loved tormenting her, it had never felt right to play with her about something like that. Gods were a personal thing.
But seeing her on one knee, her sword held tight in her hand, and her head bowed . . . With or without her robes, Quinn knew that she had not truly left her gods behind. How could she when faced with something like this?
Because they were all dead. All of them. Every monk who’d been in the monastery was dead; their broken and bleeding bodies piled high in the middle of the hall. Some tied to pillars and riddled with crossbow bolts. Most of the bodies bore signs of torture before death.
There was so much blood. He’d only seen this much blood on battlefields.
Gemma finished her prayer and stood, turning to face him.
“These monks,” she said softly, keeping her voice low in deference to the dead, “like the one outside, were not war monks. They were pacifist monks. They were here to help the weak and suffering. This place was a sanctuary for any who came here for help. Even the Old King never crossed that line. And he was known to cross almost every line.”
“Why would your kind do this?”
She shook her head. “I can’t speak for the ways of men, Amichai.”
He frowned at her response. “I’m not speaking philosophically, woman. I mean why did they do this? Now?”
“Oh!” Gemma took a look around. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because they could. With the battle for power going on, the attackers figured they could take whatever gold and silver they could find.”
“You think thieves did this?”
“You don’t?”
“Thieves usually just come in, take, then go. This . . . seems excessively cruel. Even for your kind. Don’t you think?”
“I guess.”
Quinn studied her. “You guess?”
“What do you want me to say, Amichai?”
He wanted her to say that she cared. He wanted her to say that she would stop at nothing until she found out what had happened here. He wanted her to say she would track down the bastards who’d killed these defenseless monks, skin them alive, and place them assholes first on standing pikes. That’s what he wanted to hear her say. Because that’s what Brother Gemma would have said when he’d met her. But since she’d packed away her robes . . .
“I’m going to get your sister.”
“For what?” Gemma asked. “It’s disgusting thieves with no sense of honor. We’ll bury the dead and be on our way.”
“Och!”
Gemma blinked. “Did you just ‘och’ me?”
“I did. And I’ll do it again.” He leaned down, close to her face. “Och!”
“Oy! You spit in me eye!”
“Deserved. I’m getting your sister.”
“She won’t say anything different!” Gemma called after him. “You’re being overly dramatic about all of this!”
* * *
Keeley took one turn around the room before she faced Gemma, spread her arms wide, and announced, “Thieves didn’t do this.”
Behind Keeley’s back, Quinn mouthed, Told you.
If Gemma had long enough arms to slap him where he stood . . .
“This is the work of soldiers.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Are you blind?” Keeley took another turn around the main hall, shaking her head and making distinct sounds of disgust; her brow furrowed. “This is so disturbing. Do you not find this disturbing?” Keeley asked. And, before Gemma could answer, “How do you not find this disturbing?” she bellowed.
“I didn’t say I don’t find this disturbing!”
“Where’s the monk?” Keeley asked Quinn. Because suddenly they were friends.
“This way, Your Highness,” Quinn said with a sweeping gesture of his arm.
Keeley walked past Gemma, not even looking at her. When Quinn followed, Gemma pulled back her arm to punch him on the side of the head but Caid caught hold and pulled her in the opposite direction. They went into a small hallway, where he released her.
“What’s going on?”
“Your brother—”
“Other than that. What’s going on here?”
Gemma let out a sigh. “I don’t know. It looks like thieves to me.”
“Does it really? Usually you’re more paranoid than that.”
“I’m not paranoid.”
“Gemma, you’re the most paranoid person I know. And I know my father. And your uncle.”
Gemma briefly rubbed her forehead. “All right. Maybe I was a little dismissive. Normally I’d be a little more . . .”
“Questioning?”
“Yes.”
“So be questioning now. If my brother is asking questions . . . my brother . . . there must be something. Look around. Be the old you.”
“The old me?”
“You’ve been different lately.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “To be honest, you remind me of your cousin.”
“Keran?” she exploded. “I remind you of Keran?”
“Don’t know why you’re yelling. I like Keran.”
“That’s hardly the point.” Gemma looked away from the Amichai, dismissing him with a wave. “I . . . I . . . I’ll look around. See what I can find.”
“Great,” Caid said flatly. “Thanks.” He studied her for a moment. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just . . . go.”
“Do you want me to find you some ale?”
Gemma glared up at him. “No. I do not want you to find me any ale. I do not need any ale.”
“No, no. Of course you don’t.”
Insulted by his tone, Gemma opened her mouth to reply but he’d already walked away. If he’d been in his natural form, she’d have kicked him in his horse rump.
No, she wouldn’t do any of that. She needed to calm down. She needed to be rational.
If Caid thought something was strange about all this, he was probably right. Unlike his ridiculous brother, Caid was a thoughtful centaur. A good match for her sister, who thought this harsh world was filled with nothing but do-gooders wanting only the best for others.
She’d started to head down to the sleeping chambers, away from the main hall, when Laila came toward her. She was sliding her weapon back into its sheath when she stopped by Gemma’s side.
“No one left alive. Only the monk. He’s very lucky.” She shook her head. “What happened here?”
“I have no idea. Caid wants me to take a look around.”
“Good idea. Your sister is talking to the monk. And the troops are preparing burial pyres.”
“Don’t. The pacifists bury their dead. Tell the soldi
ers to dig graves.”
“Why would anyone bury their dead?”
“It’s something they do.”
She scrunched up her face. “Ew.”
“Try not to be so judgmental in front of the monk, please.”
“Make sure I’m burned,” Laila insisted. “I don’t want to spend my afterlife rotting away in the dirt. With the bugs. Or if I can’t be burned, leave me out for the elements. So I’m eaten by predators.”
“Must we really have this conversation now?”
“Just making sure it’s clear. You humans are . . . strange.” She looked Gemma over. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You want some ale? I’m sure there’s ale somewhere around here.”
Gemma gritted her teeth. “I do not need ale. And the pacifist monks abstain.”
“Seriously?”
“From ale and sex and violence. They avoid anything that might make one’s cock hard.”
“Ah. I see. Well . . . we’ll be home soon enough.” She patted Gemma on the shoulder and walked off.
Gemma briefly thought about screaming and tearing the walls of this pacifist house down around her ears but she would never disrespect another god’s house of worship, whether she worshipped that god or not. Instead, she went on her search.
She searched and she searched. For nearly an hour. But she found nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. From what she could tell, the intruders had taken all the gold, all the silver, anything that might be worth something as any good thief or thieves would.
“I knew this was a waste of time.”
She started toward the closest exit but stopped abruptly.
Gemma went over everything in her head one more time. Everything she’d seen or not seen during the time she’d been inside the monastery. That’s when she knew what she’d missed. How blind she’d been.
“Fuck,” she barked before she took off running. “Fuck!”
* * *
The graves had been dug and the troops were carefully laying the bodies of the brutalized brothers into the dirt while Keeley, Quinn, the Amichais, and the last remaining monk looked on.
