The Princess Knight (The Scarred Earth Saga Book 2)

by G. A. Aiken

  “Making her not a traitor and not a deserter. More importantly—”

  “Much more importantly,” Bartholemew grumbled, his arms resting on the table, his head resting on his arms.

  “—she came here with an offer of protection from the Queen of the Hill Lands. So not only would we be executing a princess—”

  “A false princess,” Sprenger felt the need to add.

  The nine elders gazed at him blankly—even his allies—before Brín agreed with a sigh, “Okay.”

  “—but a princess who brought overtures of goodwill. I’m not sure that’s a reputation we want. You know . . . as monks.”

  “Let’s also keep in mind that Brother Gemma is the sister of”—Bartholemew held up his middle and forefinger—“two queens.”

  Sprenger spun away from them and Bartholemew kept his fingers raised but turned his hand and flicked it. Thomassin slammed his friend’s hand down on the table just as Sprenger spun back around, his eyes narrowing on their falsely smiling faces.

  “I know of at least one queen that will not cry at the loss of such a sister.”

  “Dearest Grand Master, I don’t think any of us should guess how deep the bond of blood truly goes between sisters. You may think you have permission to annihilate Brother Gemma, but then there are sisterly regrets and the blaming of those holding blood-covered swords.”

  “You always were the one with the pretty words, Thomassin.”

  “We strive to stick with our strengths, Brother.”

  “Fine. What do you suggest?”

  “Suggest?”

  “Yes. How do I get rid of her?”

  “By letting her go?”

  For a moment, the grand master’s face became so red, Thomassin truly believed that his head would explode all over them. It took him several minutes before he could speak.

  “Let her go?”

  “You cannot kill her. You cannot keep her. So we send her back to the Queen of the Hill Lands with our kind regrets.”

  “And that’s it?” Sprenger bellowed. “We don’t even punish her?”

  “For what?” Bartholemew wanted to know. “Following the orders of the grand master?”

  “Maybe that’s what she did then,” Brother Peters interjected, “but what about now?”

  “What about now?” Thomassin asked, unable to keep the aggravation out of his tone. Peters was one of Sprenger’s supporters. He’d always liked “that boy’s connections.”

  “She’s been gone two years with no word to anyone. And when she does return, she does not wear her tunic and comes in the company of Amichais and a drunken cousin. She’s no longer one of us. She’s a princess now, as Brother Thomassin kindly pointed out, and the sister of two queens.” His smile was like that of a pleased lizard sitting in the sand. “Strip her of her title and rank among our order. That way you take her power but you won’t make her a martyr. Instead, Grand Master, you make her a cautionary tale for the trainees.”

  “Wait.” Thomassin shook his head. “We’re going to punish her because she’s traveling with Amichais—a tribe we have no disagreement with—and a cousin who likes to drink too much ale?”

  Sprenger’s laugh was loud. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  * * *

  Ainsley had just nodded off when she heard the snort of a horse. By the time she was fully awake, her bow was already in her hands, an arrow nocked, the bowstring pulled, and before she could stop herself . . . she let the arrow fly.

  She was about to call out a warning when the rider turned and an arrow was released, slicing through Ainsley’s arrow with ease. Ainsley had only a split second to react and roll out of the way. The metal head of the arrow sliced her cheek open just as she rolled off the branch, out of the tree, and she hit the ground hard.

  As she tried to get her breath back, her opponent’s horse slowly walked up to her. The blunt end of a spear jammed her shoulder, pushing her over.

  The woman monk staring down at her sighed. “We’re not taking recruits, child. And even if we were, this is not the way to apply.”

  “Not . . . recruit . . .” Ainsley panted out. “Wait . . . ing.”

  “Waiting? For who?”

  “Gemma.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the monk said with a massive eyeroll. “I should have known.”

  She slipped the spear back into a holster attached to the horse’s saddle.

  “What’s your name?” the monk demanded.

  “Ainsley,” she got out in one breath. “My name’s Ainsley.”

  “How long have you been out here?”

  “Few hours.”

  “Are you sure? You smell like you’ve been out here for days.”

  “We’ve been on the road for days.”

  “This way.” The monk gestured. “You need a bath and I need to treat that wound.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Listen to me, little girl. You can stay here and hide in your tree. But if there’s one thing lonely packs of men that have been riding for weeks can sniff out . . . it’s a young girl. Especially one that hasn’t bathed for a while. And if you don’t treat that wound, you’ll be too weak to fight them off. So you can let me help you, or you can sit here and wait to be a victim. Your choice.”

  Ainsley watched the woman ride off, her eyes wide. What kind of thing was that to say to . . . well . . . anyone? But horrified that the monk might be speaking the truth—a female soldier would know that sort of thing, wouldn’t she?—Ainsley ran after her and her horse.

  * * *

  Gemma had just fallen into a fitful sleep when a hand slapped over her mouth. She had her thumbs against her attacker’s eyes before she realized that it was Brother Thomassin. Thankfully she hadn’t continued to shove her thumbs forward. That would not have ended well for either of them.

  Throwing her arms around Thomassin’s shoulders, she hugged the older monk tight.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she whispered.

  He pulled away from her and placed his forefinger against his lips. He motioned with a wave of his hand and she watched him climb onto her desk and easily haul himself into a small opening in the stone ceiling. She frowned at the ease with which he disappeared inside, but decided not to think too much on it. She just hoped she still moved like that when she was his age.

  Gemma followed him through the narrow air shaft until they landed in a room she had never seen before. It took her a few seconds to realize they were in some part of the library. The most important part of any monastery. Even for war monks.

  Once inside, she was happy to see Brothers Bartholemew and Brín. She hugged them both.

  “I thought I’d never see any of you again.”

  “We don’t have much time, Gemma,” Thomassin told her.

  “They’re coming to execute me, aren’t they?”

  The brothers frowned.

  “No, silly girl,” Thomassin corrected. “We’re just tired and need to sleep. We’re old men.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I doubt we’ll get a chance to talk to you again before you meet with Sprenger.”

  “He poisoned him, didn’t he? Or tricked him. That’s how he defeated Joshua.”

  “Sprenger was always a good fighter. You just never wanted to believe it,” Bartholemew reminded her.

  “I beat him. Even before I was trained.”

  “He expected no resistance from you that night. You were a sixteen-year-old peasant girl—”

  “I was not a peasant.”

  “—alone in the stables. The last thing he expected from you was a fight. If he had, things might have been different.”

  “They might be different now,” Thomassin said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means let us handle this, Gemma.”

  “You’re going to let him get away with this, aren’t you?”

  “Gemma—”

  “You’re going to let him stay in power,” s
he accused. “You’re going to let him and his marauding penis terrorize this monastery once more! Well, I won’t have it!”

  Thomassin blew out a breath and looked at Brín, who immediately looked at Bartholemew.

  “What?” Gemma asked. Then she guessed, “You’re all planning to kill me now.”

  The three monks gawked at her until Thomassin admitted, “You are the most paranoid person I’ve ever known . . . and I’ve known kings. Several. But you’re more paranoid than any of them. How is that possible?”

  “We’re not going to kill you,” Bartholemew said. “Why would we kill you?”

  “Because I won’t fold to your persuasive tactics?” she weakly guessed.

  “That’s something.”

  After moving a stack of books and scrolls, Thomassin sat down on a chair. “Gemma, no one is planning to kill you. But there’s a lot going on.”

  “Tell me. I want to help.”

  “You can help by doing what we need you to do.”

  “By letting Sprenger remain grand master?”

  “It won’t last. Trust me. But you have to play your part.”

  “And then?”

  Thomassin glanced at his fellow elders. “The gods will do the rest.”

  Gemma threw up her hands. “Are you seriously expecting the gods to help us out of this? Seriously?”

  “How did you manage to get through training?” Bartholemew asked. “Joshua couldn’t have protected you that much.”

  She shrugged. “I mostly got hit a lot.”

  The elders nodded in agreement and Brín patted her shoulder. “That makes so much sense.”

  * * *

  After what turned out to be a bath in a nearby lake that she’d needed more than she realized, Ainsley put on fresh clothes from her saddlebags. The war monk sat on a log a few feet away from the lake. She’d built a very small fire and already had equipment out so she could work on Ainsley’s wound.

  “Sit,” she ordered, motioning to another log.

  Ainsley moved cautiously toward her until the woman finally reminded her, “I could have killed you in the tree. Or when you’d fallen out of it. Now sit down.”

  She dropped onto the log. The monk grabbed her by the chin and turned her face so she could get a look at her cheek.

  While watching her pull things out to tend to the wound, Ainsley asked, “How did you move so fast? With your bow, I mean.”

  “Training.”

  “I thought I was fast.”

  “You are. But with training, you could be faster.”

  “Faster than you?”

  The monk glanced at her. “In time.”

  “You know my sister.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “I don’t like anyone.” She wet a cloth with liquid from a small bottle and began to wipe it on Ainsley’s cheek. It stung but Ainsley gritted her teeth against the pain. Then it burned, but still she gritted her teeth. She did let out a grunt, though, when the burning turned sharp and her eyes began to tear. But, just as abruptly, the pain stopped.

  Able to speak again without screaming, Ainsley asked, “If you don’t like anyone, why are you helping me?”

  “I’m a monk.”

  “A war monk. It’s not like you help the poor.”

  “War monks help the poor by destroying those who exploit them.”

  “Yes, I’m sure wiping out whole villages helps the poor who live in them.”

  The monk leaned back. “Do you want me to sew up your face or would you rather I let it get infected and ooze?”

  “Sorry.”

  She threaded a needle and began the painful process of sewing up the open wound on Ainsley’s face.

  “Did Brother Gemma tell you all that?” she asked after a few minutes of silence.

  “My sisters don’t tell me anything.”

  “I see.”

  “But I can make up my own mind.”

  “And you’ve decided we’re bad.”

  “I haven’t decided anything. But keeping people away from their families—”

  She stopped sewing to stare at Ainsley. “What are you talking about?”

  “For ten years we never saw Gemma. You kept her away from her family.”

  “Ahh.”

  “Are you going to tell me it was her choice not to come see her family?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you that. Because I have no idea.” She began sewing again. “I can tell you I haven’t seen my family since I walked out the door of our home. But they were glad to see me go.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I frightened them. Because the love of my god was so strong.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She stopped sewing; leaned back again. “My earliest memory is not of my mother’s voice. Or my father’s. But of Morthwyl’s. It’s like he always spoke to me. Before I even knew about the gods. Any of them. And, like him, where I went . . . death followed.”

  Ainsley’s horror at that statement must have shown on her face because the monk chuckled.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. I didn’t kill puppies or strangle kittens. There’s no challenge in that. Only weakness.”

  “So you killed your family instead?”

  “Of course not. But I did hunt and kill my first adult bear by the time I was seven. I went with my uncle. I used a spear. I wasn’t strong enough to drag it back through the snow. When I was nine, we were in the middle of a war. The enemy attacked my family’s castle. All the children were hidden in the dungeons for safety. But Morthwyl called to me. I snuck out, went up to where all the fighting was. Grabbed a small fighting dagger off a body. I approached an enemy warrior. I knew I didn’t have the skills to defeat him if I took him straight on. So as I walked toward him, I calculated. He was bigger, faster, much stronger. As I moved closer, he was hacking off a man’s head with his broadsword. Still . . . I kept moving toward him. I knew there was only one thing to do.”

  “Run away?”

  “No. That wasn’t an option. Not for me. Not for my god. I approached and he saw me. With my long pigtails and my little-girl dress and the dagger I held before me. And he mocked me. Laughing with his friends about the little girl coming to attack him. And as he did, he looked away from me. That’s when I slammed the blade into the top of his foot. And when he leaned over, screaming in pain, I rammed the blade into his open mouth. Killing him. And as the light went out in his eyes,” she went on, “I smiled at him. Because I knew that I had made my first true offering to my god and that he would be pleased by it. Now do you understand?”

  “Why your family never wanted to see you again . . . ? Yes.”

  “Why I never needed to see them. Because everything I need is here. Maybe that’s how Brother Gemma felt.”

  “I really hope not. Because that’s terrifying.”

  The monk tied a knot and cut off the end of the thread with a sharp knife. “Done. Don’t toy with it. It’ll itch. Don’t scratch it. Blood will ooze, but don’t panic. I’ll check on it later, so don’t worry if it oozes green.”

  “Green?”

  “I said don’t worry. If it oozes green, I’ll fix it.”

  “Right. Well, thank you.”

  She put all her equipment back into her saddlebag but dropped a linen sack in Ainsley’s lap. “Dried beef, bread. It should last a couple of days.” Next she tossed in a canteen. “Fresh water. Stay in your tree during the day. You can travel at night but stay close by.” She pointed in the direction where Ainsley had heard the sounds earlier. “Do not go anywhere over there. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean, ‘yes, I’m going anyway.’ Or, ‘yes, I understand and I will do as you say’?”

  Ainsley laughed. “You really do know my sister.” The monk continued to stare at her, waiting for a proper answer. “I heard weird noises coming from that direction that I did find interesting. But after speaking with you . . . I’m not going anywhere
near there.”

  “Good. Put the fire out in about an hour. If you don’t, someone in the ramparts will notice. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I tell your sister where you are?”

  “Don’t bother. Her travel companions know where I am.”

  Without another word, the monk returned to her horse, mounted the beast, and rode off.

  Ainsley didn’t wait for another hour. She doused the fire and headed back to her tree in the dark. She climbed back to her spot, briefly stopping to yank out the arrow that was protruding from the trunk where her head had been before she moved. There was still blood on it.

  She managed to keep the arrowhead attached, so she put it in her quiver with her other arrows and rested her head against the trunk. She worked hard to ignore the fact that the back of her head rested against the hole in the trunk that the monk’s arrow had made. Considering how long that woman had been “killing for her god,” Ainsley was feeling grateful that all she had to show for their encounter was a gash on her face that might or might not start oozing something green.

  CHAPTER 10

  The field of pretty flowers next to the monastery was a place many of the brothers used for meditation. This day, though, they had a lovely picnic with Gemma’s battle-cohorts and those who’d traveled with her from her sister’s queendom.

  Yet despite all the interesting things the two extremely diverse groups could be discussing, there was only one topic on everyone’s mind.

  “Tell me, honestly,” Quinn implored Gemma’s cohorts, “how insane is she?”

  Katla tore off a piece of wild boar from the bone and shrugged her shoulders. “We’ve never been able to settle on an actual number. A percentage. Is she seventy percent crazy? Eighty percent? Or should we just go with ninety-five and leave it there?”

  “Why not a hundred percent?”

  “As a monk, I am honor bound not to believe in absolutes. Like one hundred percent evil. We’re taught to believe there’s good in everything. So I’m sure there’s some sanity in Gemma somewhere.”

  Gemma ripped a turkey leg from Farlan’s hand before he could take his first bite.

  “I don’t appreciate this discussion,” she informed them after she ate so much of the leg that Farlan dismissed the idea of taking it back. “I am not insane. You’ve met both Keeley and Beatrix,” she reminded Quinn. “And my uncle Archie. He’s the one who’s insane.”